life goes on
each season has something
There is chaos in springtime. I feel off balance, like a bear coming out of hibernation. Sunlight is welcome. Cool winds still blow. Mourning doves have returned. Canadian geese float on the river. Buds form on branches. Cloudy days are moody. Sounds of frogs come from the swamp.
There is work where ever I look. I am tired of hauling in firewood. There is a Bible verse about subduing the earth. I wrestle with wildness. Partridge drum on fallen logs. Wood ticks awaken in the woods. Pine sap oozes from evergreens.
I feel the aches and pains of working outside. The blister on my thumb requires a band aid. I rake the lawn. Matted leaves and dead grass clog the tines.
Awakening the lawnmower means fresh oil. I remember the autumn day I drove it into the shed. The tires need air. The car needs vacuuming. I look at the disorder on the workbench. All the hammers should go together. I hang up pieces of coiled rope. Pails of nails remain unpounded. Piles of lumber are disheveled and shifty.
I walk around mud puddles. Old wiper blades are replaced. I shovel dirt into holes. There is a fenceline to walk, with barbed wire to restretch and trees to cut. Old cedar posts heave up by frost. Some rot after years of wear. I get the tractor stuck. It is buried to the axle. Piles of firewood get rained on.
I sit in a small sunlit building with a comfortable chair and read a book. The hammock stretchs between two pines. There is trash to pick up along the highway. I walk and feel the pain in my knee.
Country western music from the shop radio is a diversion. I will move the oil tubes of paint and canvas to the shop and contemplate being creative. I search for words. There are docks to bring out into the lakes. I make a resolution to go fishing. The cat sleeps on the sofa. Part of the discipline is seeing beauty. I am thankful.
I want people to read what I write. I want to encourage other writers. I find a great story and I am lost in it. Sigurd Olson writes tales of boundary waters in northern Minnesota. They capture my imagination. I am transported to the lakes and waterfalls again.
I have cards unsent, letters unwritten. How healing to to write again. I grow tired. The night quiet is soothing. It is good to stop now, expressing thoughts of disorder which have been helped by a keyboard and screen. Let the healing begin.
My Favorite Minnesota - Camping - Campsites
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