I'm still in the midst of garden therapy. Or maybe it's yard therapy, since I'm fairly sure that the extensive gardens I inherited with the house last summer have given up on me. I don't know a thing about actual gardening. I'm pretty good with irises - but as those are quite difficult to kill, I don't think that's much of a feather in my gardening cap.
I've been so unsettled this week after all of last week's sturm and drang. It's helped to cut the grass and water the flowers I can find. It's helped to pull up weeds (or flowers ugly enough that I think they're weeds.) It has helped to do all of this with my son at my side. He has nattered on and on and on about War Hammer and plate mail and chain mail and Roman soldiers and Vikings and face plates and weapons through the ages. We have talked a little about what got him in trouble and we've talked a whole lot about everything else he's interested in. I've needed that reconnection with the earth after last week's fearsome storms. I've needed that reconnection with the sweetness in my son after last week's surprising trouble. I haven't quite figured out a solution for the whole 'gifted' mess I have to untangle for Havoc, but maybe you'll get an earful of that tomorrow.
For now, we're going to fix some lunch and eat in the courtyard and then go lie in the grass. I'll leave you with my very favorite poem of all times, Mary Oliver's Summer Day. "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"