7 :: 365

uggy jump 7_365

I am noticing how tall she looks in this photo, throwing a snowball for Harry.  And I am remembering when we first got him as a pup and she was just three.  I called her my baby zen master puppy trainer.  She had a way with him from the very beginning — a certain confidence and grace.

Lately she has been asking for a dog “of her own.”  I reply, “Maybe when you are ten.  Ten is a good age for a dog of your own.”  I think, for now we have Harry.  Goodness knows, Harry is enough!

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November Guest

november

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.

colors left

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

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The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

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Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

— Robert Frost

harris ford

I’m Working

ellen

Two months ago I stopped working at an office.  Surprisingly, it is taking me much longer to let go of that part of my identity, my routine, my focus . . . and reclaim my own mental space and home schedule again.  Over the past decade I’ve always “worked” in some form or another, but something took ahold of me while I was working in an office for a couple of years and becoming part of an organizational culture — something that I didn’t quite recognize until I’d left it.  It was so easy to point to my well-respected, local land conservancy and say, “I work there.”  It was so official.  Legitimate. I liked that.

picnic

Now I squirm a bit when asked, “Where do you work?” My answer is much more complex.  I get to say, “I do this,” instead of “I work there,” which is not always an easy thing to explain.

what's in there?

The how and why I got here is a long story, but after a bit of mental turmoil I’m ready to admit the simple truth: I am so happy to be home again. I love to work at home. I say this with joy and also with a little guilt — because whether or not my current work will materialize into income is still an unknown. So, can I still call it work? Also, now that it is summer, my days are very likely to include a spontaneous picnic or two . . . and what would the boss say?

wild flowers