Summer Time Rules

Eighty degrees and sunny with a slight breeze. These are the days that we Northlanders live for. Eight months out of the year we dream of this time, we keep it vibrant in our memory with mementos gathered on outdoor excursions; stones, shells, and fossils are stacked into shrines around our home and feathers, dried flowers, and the delicate remains of egg shells and butterfly wings fill bowls and baskets near our bedside. Solid, tangible evidence to serve as a reminder that light, life, and warmth will return.

The garden is coming along beautifully, though behind schedule. I don’t know if that is because I set my goals too high or because I am an exceptionally slow worker. People keep giving me a hard time about if I’m getting before and after pictures. I wonder why people want to see pictures of a mess… But I am trying to remember to add pictures of our progress on Flickr. The girls get excited about the new aspects we are adding to the garden and are anxious to pitch in. We are about to expand the sand box, a project that we’ve put on hold until we had the space ready to use the gravel we screen out of the rough sand as the base for our brick and cobblestone path. The girls each get a section of pathway to design and choose rocks for. I am so thankful to have the opportunity to provide them with this experience. Macey understands that I am teaching her to care for the earth and strives to learn and grow every day. The time spent in garden we are creating will be a happy sunny memory for the rest of their life.

So I’m living the dream, no apologies. Well, some apologies because I have been extremely negligent with my writing which is bad for me, because when I don’t my thoughts get as muddy as the water we make into mud pies, even though being in the sun is so, so good for me. Sometimes while I am working I think of something that I would like to write about, but am most often distracted by the girls or some immediate problem solving that needs my attention for the garden project to move forward before I am able to flesh it out. You have to listen to that voice to capture the words on paper, and I have to shush it far too often. Although my head is working better than it has in a few years, I am still not writing sonnets while doing my busy work. Perhaps when those dark winter days return and the garden is hidden in snow as blank and white as the pages of my notebook remain in summer.