The last day of the week, the last day of the month, and I hope -- the last of total cloud cover. Hungry for February, hungry for sunshine, hungry for the color that comes with dappled light.
Still, it's a calm and satisfying day. If a bit gloomy.
I continue to wait for the phone call that will jumpstart my mom's Act III of her saga. I'm eager to take that final step of moving her to a place she'd like. But it's not in our hands. Right now, all that I can do is wait.
It's not unpleasant to be in a waiting mode on this particular day. I do garden planning. This is huge for me. Remember how in late August I had no interest at all in doing anything in the flower fields? That was then. Now, I want to completely replant the field that had succumbed to a fecund sprouting of weeds. It's close to the sheep shed and I always told myself that no one looks at it anyway, but of course, very few people look at the Big Bed and the Lily Field and yet I work hard at making it pretty each morning. So I will prettify the more distant bed. And today I conceive a plan for it.
And yes, it will include the pretty Avante Garde. In a place of honor! And I will again attempt to plant sweet peas that will never make it even halfway up the fence, because the animals will chomp them down, but hey, maybe this spring they wont! Maybe I'll get lucky.
And there you have it: I'm full of that prespring belief that luck may take hold and grow along with the peonies and phloxes and foxgloves. Spring, on the horizon (a still distant horizon, but still, it's there) allows you to dream big.
Breakfast.
On Fridays, Snowdrop is the sole visitor at the farmhouse.
This is the day when she and I catch up on stuff. We finish a longish book. She brings out her babies for a happy return to the world of baby stories. We hang out.
I show her the painting she did of birch trees last weekend in art class. I found a frame for it. We'll hang it in the second farmhouse bedroom.
Everyone I talk to these days is tired. The month started off well, but the tail end of it seems stalled. Maybe we just need a dose of good old February. The cornflower blue month. The short final burst of true winter.
Still, it's a calm and satisfying day. If a bit gloomy.
I continue to wait for the phone call that will jumpstart my mom's Act III of her saga. I'm eager to take that final step of moving her to a place she'd like. But it's not in our hands. Right now, all that I can do is wait.
It's not unpleasant to be in a waiting mode on this particular day. I do garden planning. This is huge for me. Remember how in late August I had no interest at all in doing anything in the flower fields? That was then. Now, I want to completely replant the field that had succumbed to a fecund sprouting of weeds. It's close to the sheep shed and I always told myself that no one looks at it anyway, but of course, very few people look at the Big Bed and the Lily Field and yet I work hard at making it pretty each morning. So I will prettify the more distant bed. And today I conceive a plan for it.
And yes, it will include the pretty Avante Garde. In a place of honor! And I will again attempt to plant sweet peas that will never make it even halfway up the fence, because the animals will chomp them down, but hey, maybe this spring they wont! Maybe I'll get lucky.
And there you have it: I'm full of that prespring belief that luck may take hold and grow along with the peonies and phloxes and foxgloves. Spring, on the horizon (a still distant horizon, but still, it's there) allows you to dream big.
Breakfast.
On Fridays, Snowdrop is the sole visitor at the farmhouse.
This is the day when she and I catch up on stuff. We finish a longish book. She brings out her babies for a happy return to the world of baby stories. We hang out.
I show her the painting she did of birch trees last weekend in art class. I found a frame for it. We'll hang it in the second farmhouse bedroom.
Everyone I talk to these days is tired. The month started off well, but the tail end of it seems stalled. Maybe we just need a dose of good old February. The cornflower blue month. The short final burst of true winter.
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