Monday, March 4
Over several hours in the early night, through my deepest sleep, I hear texts softly dinging in. It’s three brothers, at three different locations, three time zones apart, the younger two congratulating the oldest in the family group chat on a big project well done.
Hell yeah, dude! That’s really well done, bro. That’s so sick. Those videos are awesome!
Brother speak.
Tuesday, March 5
House finches, nuthatches, and chickadees, they fly in, alight at the rim of the bird feeder, snatch a single sunflower seed. The chickadees and nuthatches take their seeds back to the trees to eat them, the finches crack them while perched there, letting the shells fall to the ground. These little birds don’t have hands or arms, baskets, pouches, or pockets to fill with seed and carry away, yet they drain the feeder in a week, one seed at a time.
Wednesday, March 6
When thoughts are a jumble, like a pile of spilled toothpicks, tangled and sharp, have a seat at a table big enough to contain the mess. With pencil and notebook, just start writing. Tear pages out, put them in a heap. Grab one back and scribble an idea across a blank space of it. Write it again, in a different way. Then write it again. Each time it becomes clearer, better. Take the clarity that still clings to the pencil tip and write it into your notebook, then. Stroke by stroke, line by line, the jumble is less jumbled, the criss-crossed a little more in line.
Thursday, March 7
We wind our way through the frosty grass along the river, way back where the meadow is ringed by cottonwoods. A bald eagle watches intently from her perch above. At the edge of the meadow sits a two-foot slice from the end of a three-foot log, a giant puck hurled from some far-off place. Really, though, it’s a deposit from the last flood, lifted upstream somewhere, floated along, then abandoned here, where the trees and meadow meet. A platform, a table, an altar, a seat.
Today, a seat. I settle in.
Friday, March 8
I open my stash and choose a remnant ball of the softest yarn. I grab a pair of needles without looking at their size. Casting on an uncounted number of stitches, I begin to knit. At row’s end, I turn and purl. I’m knitting nothing. No plan, no pattern, no counting, no attention. Simply the solace of repetition, of needles and yarn, of row by row.
Saturday, March 9
It’s quiet morning. From the sofa, I’m doing my early work by candlelight. Maggie Mae snoozes in her chair; Peanut is snuggled in the crook of my knees. Then, from the still-dark bedroom at the end of the house comes a text from him. No words, just a link to a song.
Gather is coming in a week, loves! Saturday the 16th at 10:00am MDT, I’ll be going live on Zoom with my paid subscribers for slow time together. I’ll be planting seeds! We can talk gardening, spring, hope, renewal. I’d love to see you there! If you’d like to join us, simply upgrade your subscription at the link below and you’ll receive the call link later this week!
Carmella this makes me smile! So many blessings. ❤️ Thank you for sharing.