It’s been hot here. And dry. Strange words in the Northwest.
But the Wet is never far away.
I’m drawn outside to the first patter of rain, the faint knocking of a long-missed friend, feeling the warm clammy drops of rain on skin.
The downspout begins to creak its metal-water warcry. Drip. Drops connecting, weeping together, a rivulet. A stream.
Green leaves unfurl beneath cloudy skies and the promise of a healthy soak.
I look at Gregory, the rescue lion turned guardian of my garden.
I found him sitting on the edge of a dumpster, one step away from an early grave. He’s actually a broken clock, but he fit nicely over the gap in my fence, thereby finding his new home and purpose.
I’m a little obsessed with gardening. The earthiness of it. The satisfaction of growing, sustaining, and mutually benefiting from each other’s attentions.
It’s a form of meditation on the present and a calming way to be productive after hectic hours spent working.
It’s not the act of traveling great distances. It’s a travel through time.