Monday Morning. A fresh pot of coffee. Quiet anticipation of a relatively restful week.
At the moment I am actually looking forward with to not doing anything, not going anywhere. I'm sure that will change, but after an over-scheduled week, a bit of quiet sounds nice. I would have to say it was not deliberate, but in some part of my psyche it must have been, there must have been some evil-genie involved, the one that always pushes me to do more, to miss nothing. She'd probably drive me to death if I let her. But of course, I don't. The conflicting need for quiet meditation is too strong. I won't.
The flowers from last week are fading nicely. I need to do some rearranging, to remove some spent blossoms, but the roses are drying nicely, and other nice blooms remain. Memory and promise.
Contemplating the flowers reminds me of the small bits of planting done this past week; hopefully it was not too late. I managed to plant a couple of roses, a couple of small hydrangeas, some alstroemeria, even a few bulbs. Planting holds such promise, such anticipation, enough to tide me over the bleakness of winter, and by the time the new growth begins I will once again be thrilled and excited, like a child gazing at the tree on Christmas morning, surrounded by gifts and promises.
I have to cook one side dish for Thanksgiving. Although it feels odd not to be cooking, it is not a bad kind of odd. It may in fact be rather nice. I anticipate a long walk, a good book or two, some sewing, knitting, or embroidery time. Oh yes, and some more work in the garden. I'm not quite caught up on settling the flower beds in for the winter, and there are still some bulbs to plant. Perhaps I overindulged, just a bit. Promises, promises. I hope it is not too late.
