a rutted track

The pond is drained and the alligators (aka: deadlines) are moving in. It's the final editing phase of the SOMOS anthology and the middle of two other book projects I've committed to. Time compresses and my macbook air sucks me in like a black hole. The trees need watering, dead branches removed, the guest room (aka: my workroom) has to be uncluttered enough to receive the friend who will visit this summer. And don't even mention the garden patch still waving tall gray winter weeds amidst new greenery, a deceased lavender bush, and wild roses gone completely and dangerously wild. The car needed a new battery, my friend fell and was hospitalized, I haven't walked in the park in three days. The road is long. I dream of beach cottages, bare feet and a big hat. A dream.

But we did get to the landfill. I seriously considered tossing into a big hole filled with dozens of bulging plastic trash bags, 35 writing workbooks spanning about 10 years - an offering to the garbage gods. Courage failed me. Yet the moment is approaching. Am I ever going to reread all those composition books? Wade through inks and scribbles and casual collages that indicate my state of mind 8 or 10 or 3 years ago? Look for gems? If there are indeed any gems they will be lost and no one will be the wiser. Maybe something better lurks in a less jumbled mind. A bicycle on a pile of old refrigerators.

Couldn't fend off thoughts of life as throwaway junk. Too much stuff, too many messy, bent and broken bits. Too many old weeds. I remembered junk in other beautiful places.

And all manner of things on my paths that defy the concept - like the bluebird couple that visit the deck each morning and how, no matter how closely I follow them with my eyes, I can't locate their nest. The way a day without wind is a blessing and there's new yarn coming and it's the color of Victorian geraniums and watermelon.

And how sometimes the least we can do for ourselves is fix a pretty breakfast (and then sepia-ize it digitally) just for joy.