I keep telling her that this is our last garden morning for the season. We expect it to get cold and drizzly and damp, but it doesn’t. So we take them, these gifts, for as long as they are there.
The holiday lights will be lit this weekend, the installation is wrapping up. It’s been busier on these mornings as the preparations for the season are underway. There are big tree crews on ropes, stringing lights while swinging in the leaves. We skip all the action and the bustle and head to the rear of the garden.
Berries are everywhere, in every color. I enjoy discovering them, she’s not as interested. She’s happiest when moving about, tiptoeing across rocks and getting as close as possible to the water without actually falling in. Yet.
Some of these photos are from last Wednesday’s walk, the rest are from yesterday. Last week I was a bleary, blurry mess; this week, maybe a hint better? It’s hard to tell. I feel tired as we move into this next season. There is so much going on, and I feel like there is an added weight and urgency beyond the mundane. This irritates me, this extra layer of hyper-awareness and checklists of action items. My privilege is showing, I’m late to the game.
I point out our long morning shadows, and I ask her to take a photo with me. She rests her hand in the crook of my arm as I hold the camera up to take the shot. It’s so still, and she’s not moving, just standing there, joined to me for a moment. I’m surprised at how this makes me feel. It sneaks up on me and the spell lasts for several seconds before she remembers how fun her shadow can be.
The citrus trees in the Linnean house are full of fruit. “Mmmmm,” she says, pointing at the grapefruit. I agree. Grapefruit feels like Christmastime, and the holly and the poinsettias add to this.
I’ll take another Wednesday gift, if there is one. And if it turns dark and cold and blustery, that’s okay. They’ll come around again, and for that I am grateful.