Scattered bits of rain. Monday it rained in the morning and again in the evening. Yesterday evening again. Not the heaviest rain of the week, but somehow it was a calming rain, a reassuring rain. Rain can be like that: sometimes warm and friendly, necessary and life-giving; at other times needling like a cold and annoying ache; and still other times brutal, pounding, destructive. But the water itself is life.
A song is stuck in my head, a song from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, “Raindrops Keep Fallin On My Head”. A familiar song. July was not my favorite month, but it was a month of raindrops, not a month of devastating floods.
As I mentioned in my last post, I fell and broke my nose. It required surgery. A little after that I broke my left fourth metatarsal. I’ve spent a lot of time on the sofa. I’ve been unusually tired, perhaps not unusual given the events, but unusual in terms of what I normally expect of myself. I’ve been miserable. I have not always been gracious. But rain is kind of sneaky. It leaves some residual moisture, some nourishment behind. Acceptance and contentment begin to filter in.
So far, August feels more hopeful. The last few morning have been cooler. There has been rain, yes and the garden is thriving. There are buds on the roses I planted this spring. A single blossom greeted me just the other morning.
My yard is a jungle of weeds, and although there is some part of me, the part that thinks I can control life, the part that thinks that if I just do all the right things and follow the rules everything will be “right” — that part of me struggles with the weeds. The other part, the part that yearns to be content in the moment, that knows that control is just a myth we tell ourselves — that part is happy to sit on the porch in the morning and evening and watch the birds and bunnies cavorting in those very same weeds and marvel at the wonders of the world, which carries on.
Raindrops.
The last 10 days or so have been better. Still tired but I have been able to do more. Good, because the garden, suffering its own setback from heat and drought, recovered and is producing a little more. It is still a staggered harvest, which suits my staggered energy levels.
I managed my first small foray into canning, first in a couple of decades anyway, Saturday before last. Three jars of tomato puree, some sweet pepper pickles. That was enough of an initial adventure. A jar of tomato water was retrieved from the tomato seeds and pulp. It was a worthy addition to a pot of soup.
Less than a week later, faced with more tomatoes. I put up some more. I have another quart of tomato water to use. More soup, but I am a person who thinks that soup is always a good thing.
I also dehydrated the tomato skins to make tomato powder. I was inspired by the skins of the costuloto Genovase tomatoes, which are incredibly fragrant, although there are actually three or four tomato varieties in both the jars and the container of powder.
I am also knitting again. That seems to be all I can expect of myself at the moment. There was a period when pain meds or exhaustion meant that I spent more time unknitting than in making actual progress.
I finally finished a pair of socks.
I started making squares for a throw. There are 24 of these small squares. Then some bigger ones. I hope to complete a square a day. Not much, but enough for now. The yarn needed to complete the summer sunset sweater arrived. That process is slightly more complex than these squares, but I hope to pick that project up soon. I am learning to accept a slower pace. But sometimes I feel I am barely keeping my head above water.
There is hope. It is August now. It is the second month of sixty-third year. My new rose bush is blooming. The air is filled with birdsong. It is enough.
