Transitional seasons. This slow descent into autumn–this falling–wears on me. Everything looks rusty. Parched. It’s been even harder to get up at five in the morning to start journaling. And it’s dark out. Yes, falling.
Falling further behind.
I’m thankful for the days I have been able to get up and turn on the laptop, even if a half hour late.
I’m thankful for a full day of reading and writing yesterday–with a gap to tackle the yard. A lot of good revision work (at least, it looked good yesterday). A chance to catch up. I’m not there yet, not even close, but I can see what it looks like.
I’m thankful for blackberries–and I’m not. The stealth invasion has rooted in my yard, steep slope, under rhododendrons, growing up through the leaves in classic camouflage. Not good, and they must be dealt with. I’m calling in reinforcements. But deep purple clusters of berries hang, sometimes within reach. They also must be dealt with. Outside, the berries look like the invasion’s next wave–a menace. In the bowl, they just look delicious. (If you can’t beat ’em, eat ’em.)
I’m thankful for getting to spend time with my dad yesterday, taking him and the two younger kids to a Mariners game–even if I messed up the timing and we were half an hour late–and a chance to hang out with my sister and sister-in-law there.
Open the door. Open my heart.