It was overcast yesterday, and I spent most of the day inside, working intensely on my blog post. Lots of copying, pasting, hunting, pecking. On days like those, I lose track of my body, the idea of height or strength or even texture, and it is all just words.
Focus, focus, focus is my friend.
I ate lunch – at my desk as other writers do – seeking to re-fuel my focus and find more just-right words. Though I’m a word nerd, just-right is an elusive beast and causes – to my dentist’s dismay – much gnashing of teeth.
In the early afternoon, I wistfully looked outside, wondering when the sun would burn off the fog, and it was then that I spied my husband’s robust garden. We’d backed the raised bed with sunflowers, not knowing the salvation they’d bring.
You see, it was only when we moved to Southern California that we learned of June Gloom. To make matters worse, to betray these Midwesterners’ promise, that seasonal phenomenon had expanded to include May Gray.
While I didn’t physically cut those valiant flowers, I plucked them as metaphorical words for my blog post. God gives what he’d taken away (our perceived promise of constant sunshine) and my word count is complete.
I smile – and then another miracle transpires.
My husband steps into view to water his garden, tending the crops in the thorough, well-plotted manner that he takes care of me. His is a methodical, purposeful love. He often brings me flowers – not the florist high-priced and artfully-arranged variety – but serendipitous bunches of thoughtfulness. Today is the deadheads from the marigolds that ring his raised beds, the varmint wardens he’s planted.
His is the universal care of a farmer that loves the land and its mayhem, the better to curb it to his will.
I wish I had a similar ability to bend words to my will.
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