update

Things happening in my neck of the woods: we moved again to house-sit for two months. Our new neighbourhood is quiet and lovely to walk. It's hard to see so many pretty flowers that I'm not allowed to touch. One day, when I have my own yard, it will hold a profusion of blooms with a sign "please pick" so those who walk by can take a flower to brighten their day. I think flowers ought to be shared more readily - every time I go to a public park, I try to pick a couple and my husband wonders if its illegal. How sad! I'm sure I pay taxes for it. I know if everyone picked a bloom there may not be any left, but not everyone wants a bloom and if people pick in moderation then we can all be happy. I'm sure it says something about our culture and personality and everything wrong with humanity that I can't pick flowers at a public park. 

I'm done with the tirade. My in-laws have been visiting for about a week and its been low-key and wonderful. Yesterday, we visited the Arboretum where I snapped a picture of this hydrangea (one of my favorite flowers!). Wednesday, the temperature is supposed to break 100 degrees. They've decided it would be a good time to head northward toward home. Smart in-laws.

Hubby has been under the weather. There's a luscious garden in the half acre of the house we're sitting but vine borers got to the squash. Those ^%&#&#! I managed to harvest enough zucchini for four loaves of zucchini bread. I suppose that's my consolation prize. But I would've loved a couple more months of fresh squash and onions pulled from the dirt moments before sautéed in butter. I'm salivating. It's cruel.

 

I have a hot weather tip for you. Toss a handful of this Cosmos Cutesy Mix and let your yard turn into a prairie of wild flowers: beautiful and functional for getting out of unpleasant torturous tasks like summer mowing.

Weekend on 6th street

I sit here and try to write about something for which I have no words.

I could show you a picture of 6th street but chances are you've already seen one. I could describe rubble upon rubble but chances are you wouldn't understand any more than I do. I expected it to be like mississippi in 2005. But debris piles alone are impersonal. On 6th street, I saw faces in the rubble: people whose belongings I sifted through, vacant stares of those waving away help, and tearful pleas to stave off the bulldozers (as if I could). I didn't anticipate so many conversations with faces in the midst of ruined lives.

I confess I was all business as I recorded data on my clipboard, directed volunteers, marked my map with discovered street names, listed tools (chainsaws needed, check). A coping mechanism, I suppose, as frail as those I saw: faces clinging to half-twisted things as if they were a precious jewel or a lost limb. Do we humans define ourselves so readily, so errantly? The longer I looked, the less I could deny. Though secretly, I resolved to make a life impervious to such destruction, my constructs are just as these: vulnerable to the broken world of which I am made.

But are we not immortal beings? Am I not reborn of materials such as spirit and soul, no longer made only of brokenness and dirt? The longer I looked, the less I was confident. I give myself to the world's seduction more completely than I ought. I need some salvation still.

The end of all things will be rubble except for our souls.