I find myself back on a schedule where I am more than happy to offer up my time to anything wildly creative and undoubtedly pressing and urgent but none of it for writing or the clear-mindedness it requires, heavily flabbergasted I ever found time for it before or actually stop my mind from wandering all over the place. There’s always at least two sides to every story, so I won’t pretend to be dissatisfied or feeling guilty, because I’m making huge progress by devoting all my energie to restructuring our vegetable garden, slowly massaging the scars inflicted on it by our still constructing neighbors and their divergent view on beauty.
The rebel in me encourages this break, this anarchy where my thoughts are not instantly straitjacketed into posh words and sentences, while the absence of a flow to meticulously unravel gives my mind a vacation, but my body the rather serious workout that comes with physical labour. It’s not the first time I’m registering that some activities demand a more linear approach of time that doesn’t quite compare well to the preferred circular merge I tend to follow when I’m trying to catch some ideas and shape them into something shareable.
Both postures, like an ongoing fight between head and hands, share my eyes, who never interrupt, disturb or interfere any work, because they are not only registering the enchantment, but retrospectively recognizing it as motivation for all.
There’s a pink awakening at Les Pierres, hard not to notice, that simply screams for a post supporting Pride Month, a pretty obvious suggestion if you know its inhabitants, so here goes.
Facebook reminded me this week of a picture I posted three years ago, showing off the newly planted purple rose that I, according to the caption, thought matched perfectly with the ‘hideous’ shutters that since have become iconic in the most charming sense of that word. Phenomenal visual evidence of our own personal pride that well deserves a repeat in its surrounding blooms. Just not on the new pergola.