May 26. A day like any other.
Another weekday filled with work and longing to be elsewhere, outside in my garden, running, being held up by a breeze.
Except. I stole the afternoon. I couldn’t help it. And I’m not doing anything, not pulling one million dandelions or planting or watering or designing or cleaning or fixing or producing.
I am sitting in my garden listening to birdsong and breezes, basking in an already too-warm sun, trying not to feel guilty while doing it.
Okay, fine, I’m not having all that much trouble with the guilt.
The bluebirds haven’t been here at all today, I think the cats may have finally frightened them away. This makes me sad and relieved all at once.
But the mockingbird has a nest in the row of pines along the edge of the property, and while I can’t see him, I can hear him, show-off that he is, marking time in the voices of others.
These are the kind of moments I live for. I can’t decide if that’s sad or not. Although I think I’m deciding that it’s not. Oh, I’m sure there are people that have lives much more exciting than mine, but I am content sitting here in my garden, bare feet up on a chair, sun on my face, surrounded by the jungle of my existence.
I never thought I’d be this woman, sitting in her backyard, not needing anything else.
Yet here I am. Soaking up so much more than the sun that glints off the oh-so-white skin of my shins.
And what’s really blinding
is my smile.