The air is cool at night finally and fog lingers until nine in the morning. When I take my dogs out early before dawn I hear the sounds of moisture dropping off the massive leaves of the centuries old Catalpa trees in my front yard. I realize there is a dampness here in Kentucky I wasn’t familiar with in Wisconsin. Tiny nests of spider webs are spun through the grass. I don’t like disturbing them.
I can’t mow until the sun hits the fields and dries the grass. I know it’s an avoidance move on my part this mowing urge. I could go into the studio and make something. But that means a slip down the slope of attachment to a project that precludes housekeeping, weeding my garden, washing my truck, tending to the animals.
So I’m wary of beginnings. I’m also aware of endings. I’ve gotten to the age of a slim balance of both. Recently I experienced an ending that I defied but grudgingly accepted. Life is rich if you open your heart to love something without reserve. I have and I will again.