what’s the story, morning glory?
I spent the weekend painting… woodwork. Fixing things that are broken. Maintaining.
Because sometimes, you just have to.
We have four face cords of wood all neatly stacked, my son came over to help us and then stacked it all by himself. He’s the best.
I feel myself getting into nesting mode, moving back inside, packing up my metaphorical gypsy tent. It’s been a chilly September. And sitting in front of the fire, even if it is inside, is always a good thing.
I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately. How important they are in our lives, the stories we tell each other, the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we use to help us get through life. Stories that teach us lessons, give us hope, perspective, or make us see something we’ve never seen before.
Each day of life is a new story. A new mystery. We never know, for certain, how it will end.
I’ve been getting up early and staying up late. Reading books and life and the moon and this house. Writing stories.
The season has shifted, and I have shifted along with it. I’m not sure where all this energy is coming from, but I’m planning to take full advantage of its presence.
My garden is always here to remind me that life goes on, in cycles and seasons, but it’s also always changing. There is always something new to see.
There is always another story.
I sit here beneath this open flower, and I listen.
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