summer moves on

 

Sometime in the past few days, the mailbox garden gardenia has exploded into bloom. In tribute? In memoriam? No, just nature doing its very best to persist. 

I had given up expecting any flowers at all. There were no buds in evidence. My eyes have been tired of looking for flashes of white in the distance. 

 This is the same bush still strung with solar Christmas lights, which cycle in a gentle fade from cool greens and blues to warm yellows and reds. Taking them down seems sacrilegious. 

Another perfect day is in the offing. Climate change may be dishing out mayhem in other places, but Georgia feels like some kind of ill-deserved Eden these days. I am grateful.

The green and quiet is good for me, so I'll take a chunk of that later. Pack my writer's bag as if I were heading for the high sierras. 

I've come to realize that just stitching is not enough for me right now. Attention to life- the doings- lifts my board and moves me forward. 

Self-care, cleaning, cooking, reading, writing, even organizing all the tax shit has been helpful. Finding a new primary care provider remains a quest. Having UHC feels like having an std. 

Years ago, I bought a beautiful cotton shirt on eBay. It was such a deal, such good quality, that I returned to the same seller and bought two more. White, navy, and Caribbean blue. 

They have been hanging in my closet for years, barely worn because the long sleeves rolled up to be secured by a clever tab and button that was uncomfortably bulky. 

Last night I lopped off a third of the sleeves, hemmed the raw edges with a nun's precision, then ran a row of stitches under each button placket to thwart gaping.  A whole new wardrobe. Time well spent.

Sometimes we ask too much of cloth and thread.