It's a day for staying in touch. For writing longer emails. For reflecting a little, for taking in the wider picture.
I'm lucky to have this time, but of course, it means that the day speeds at a pace that astonishes me. I tell Ed that I haven't been this short on time for many many years. Everything takes longer. People can exercise? Really? Where do they find the time?
We do pause mightily over breakfast. We are used to quieter meals, but these days, there seems to be a lot of ground to cover. "Did you read..." or "Someone I respect said..." are common entries into longer reflections.
By early afternoon, I have to acknowledge to myself that I have not prioritized exercise. Oh, sure, it's the weather (cold again). It's the park closings (lack of nearby paths). It's this, it's that, but mainly it's not good. And so Ed and I do venture out, just to the north of farmette lands, right into the thick of the new development. (From there, the farmette looks a little wild, a little disheveled...)
Good enough, for today. Will do better tomorrow! Maybe.
And immediately after, Snowdrop comes over.
Read, play, build -- all wrapped in stories, as told by the little girl.
(A Lego project, begun before the shutdown, finally completed.)
Ed comments later how in just the last two weeks, Snowdrop has shot up in her level of maturity. I smile at that because I've seen this before: you don't much notice the passage of time when kids are very little, until suddenly you realize that they are not so little anymore. At that point it's out of your hands -- they are one foot out the door. Or at least that's how it felt when my girls were rushing through childhood -- much in the same way that Snowdrop is rushing now. (Sparrow and Primrose are still your quintessential little guys. Give 'em a couple more years!)
Evening. We had a delivery of one last large box of Alaskan fish from our community supported fishery shares. Our freezer is full again. And tonight's dinner? Fish! With a potato, with broccoli. Fish. How lucky we are to have this slab of fish.
Thank you, Alaskan fishermen and women, and all farmers and food growers and deliverers. Thank you.
With love.
I'm lucky to have this time, but of course, it means that the day speeds at a pace that astonishes me. I tell Ed that I haven't been this short on time for many many years. Everything takes longer. People can exercise? Really? Where do they find the time?
We do pause mightily over breakfast. We are used to quieter meals, but these days, there seems to be a lot of ground to cover. "Did you read..." or "Someone I respect said..." are common entries into longer reflections.
By early afternoon, I have to acknowledge to myself that I have not prioritized exercise. Oh, sure, it's the weather (cold again). It's the park closings (lack of nearby paths). It's this, it's that, but mainly it's not good. And so Ed and I do venture out, just to the north of farmette lands, right into the thick of the new development. (From there, the farmette looks a little wild, a little disheveled...)
Good enough, for today. Will do better tomorrow! Maybe.
And immediately after, Snowdrop comes over.
Read, play, build -- all wrapped in stories, as told by the little girl.
(A Lego project, begun before the shutdown, finally completed.)
Ed comments later how in just the last two weeks, Snowdrop has shot up in her level of maturity. I smile at that because I've seen this before: you don't much notice the passage of time when kids are very little, until suddenly you realize that they are not so little anymore. At that point it's out of your hands -- they are one foot out the door. Or at least that's how it felt when my girls were rushing through childhood -- much in the same way that Snowdrop is rushing now. (Sparrow and Primrose are still your quintessential little guys. Give 'em a couple more years!)
Evening. We had a delivery of one last large box of Alaskan fish from our community supported fishery shares. Our freezer is full again. And tonight's dinner? Fish! With a potato, with broccoli. Fish. How lucky we are to have this slab of fish.
Thank you, Alaskan fishermen and women, and all farmers and food growers and deliverers. Thank you.
With love.
