Got a lot of thoughts tonight flying around. A long phone conversation with my incredible and very wise mom helps more than anything. A martini with iceland vodka and cucumber from my garden doesn't hurt.
It's funny: speaking of harvests. Of gardening. I've had that in my head for days since putting my own to bed. All the metaphors in the world can trick you up wrong. What grows in a patch is far more unpredictable than the parables could tell you. Sometimes hard work or need--and you can need it so bad--it just isn't enough. Everything is whim. Bad seed, bad ground, too cold, too hot, too dry, too wet. You want a profusion of some thing, but what you have is a glut of something else.
I'm just glad I'm not surviving on what lies blackened in my backyard.
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