Monday

Of the many reasons you might want to blog daily, without excuse or interruption, is to practice and improve -- both your writing and your photo editing skills. You have to pay attention to what you're presenting. None of this sloppy throw together stuff. Once you decide to post something, you realize that it's fantastically easy to look foolish. Taking care, every single day of the year, teaches you to improve your craft.

Still, there are days when I cheat. Giving one line labels to photos tells you that I only had time for some effort. These are the days when, after working on the photos, I have found myself dangerously close to falling asleep, with fingers growing limp over keys that then burst with millions of letters on the screen. It has happened! I try not to get to that point and so I take writing shortcuts.

But you know, I don't think you (the reader) are the worse for it. Sometimes, when I go back to a post that starts off with three or four dense paragraphs, I think -- jeez, who'd want to read that! When there are family gatherings, I say less and show more. When I travel or when spring explodes -- I do the same. Photos in May or in Paris, or from a hike, or a grandkid adventure are simply more evocative. I'd have to be a poetically inclined, hugely gifted writer to do justice to a scene where tulips sway with their faces turned toward the sun, while grandgirls clutch bouquets of dandelions. A picture says it all.

Then there are days like today: it's a very ordinary Monday. It's wet, but even that is ordinary. (And welcome! My newly planted daylilies need rain!) In the morning I feed the cats, then greet an arriving Sparrow. The two guys and I eat breakfast, then I play with the little one. In the afternoon I bring Snowdrop to the farmhouse. In the evening, I reheat a dinner of leftovers. The benefit of cooking a large dinner on Sunday (seafood pasta this time) is that there are leftovers for the next day.

There is nothing photographically extraordinary about this Monday. The day is full of calm, lovely moments. It's an even keel. No one falls off stairs or playground equipment. One knee, skinned on the brick walkway, quickly resolved with a soothing ointment and a bandaid. No hawk grabs a chicken. Outside, the smell of the earth is very satisfying: it's not summer-dry caked clay, it's all a soft mass of organic matter, giving life to growing things. At least that's my imagery.

So, nothing unusual. Pack it up and call it a day? No, of course not! It's May! The grandkids were here! (Well, all but one...) Let's rejoice together -- for all those days that are ablaze with wonderful ordinariness. Beautiful days, full of sweetly scented moments. I've said enough. Let me leave you with the photos.

(farmette morning in early May)






(Sparrow tries out his sister's toy macarons: like everything else, he tosses them to the side.)






(Breakfast: the big guy)







(Breakfast: the little guy)






(Ed asks for advice about a tree... I can't help you now. He's too heavy to carry around... I'll carry him.)






(Inside again, I give him Lego characters. He tosses them to the side, preferring to mess with the bus.)






(...while the rooster crows.)






(Sparrow was upset when we all applauded a Primrose accomplishment this weekend, ignoring him. So we're compensating by applauding him now. He applauds right back.)






The afternoon is a tad warmer. Snowdrop, can you smell the pear blossoms?






(Stop Sign is there waiting once again. She is the ever hungry cat.)






(the stories unfold...)






The day ends. Sweetly, calmly.