It's been quiet around here. Sometimes I just don't have that much to say. [If I hear a loud "Thunk!" from the direction of his office, I'll know the OC fell out of his chair at that...] Life has settled back down to a quiet routine. I've been writing letters---yes, I occasionally still do that! Doing some applique, since I have gone uncharacteristically ga-ga over Bunny Hill's basket blocks!
Baking Irish soda bread---it IS March after all---and keeping the menfolk fed and supplied with clean socks. The OC is distracted from brooding too much by his killer work load [and I thought when he was working from home things would be so..o..o much more relaxed! Harrrumph to that!]
I've been itching to write, but inspiration's been lacking. Which, I know, means I should just start randomly writing whatever comes into my head and see where it takes me. But I haven't even been moved to try.
So I came to my sewing room, balm for all sorts of troubles, and picked up my stitching.
Have I mentioned how much I love my sewing room? Love being able to leave my work out, so I can pick it up and continue from where I left off, without having to pass an act of Parliament every time? Apart from that, it's the most pleasant room in the house, with a big sliding door to the outdoors. Sunny and cheerful and bright. If my feathers are ruffled I can come in here, close the door, shut the world out and recover my composure.
Time was when I would lock myself in the bathroom to escape the bedlam. And even then the natives would continue the argument through the door, completely ignoring what I had, naively, thought was an unmistakable hint...... A room of my own was a distant fantasy! Granted, it's a little disorganized, but I'm working on that.
The natives, all but one, have trickled slowly away, each to chase dreams of their own. And sometimes, believe it or not, it is a little
too quiet.....But shhhh! One has to be careful what one wishes for. If one craves excitement, one might get more of it than one can handle. It's been known to happen. And then, too late, one appreciates the beauty of a quiet life.
But I digress. Which is part of my charm, though there are those who would vehemently disagree, those who want only the facts, not being interested in exploring the little verbal byways into which I seem irresistibly drawn. If you are a facts-only seeker, you're in the wrong place. Go away! You'll just get a headache.
So, where was I? Ah, yes, stitching. I can see everything from here; the Bean on his knees, working away on extending the barbeque patio,[worthy of a post of it's own!]; El Pussygato, attentively watching from
inside the screen the busyness of a certain dove
outside. At first I am only dimly aware of the dove. He is just a few feet from where the Bean is working, unperturbed by his proximity, or by the occasional screech of electric saw on concrete paver. Each time I glance up he is there, on the wall, or under the tree, and eventually, curiosity brings me to my feet and I go outside to investigate.
The dove is not at all bothered by the arrival of another human. He is intent on his business, which, I soon realize, is the building of a nest! Do you remember the "penthouse in the palm tree" from last Spring? Well, it appears that the accommodations and the locality were satisfactory, certain hair-raising events notwithstanding, so they are back this year, to the very same tree, preparing for another batch of dove-lets, and all the work that that entails.
I sit down on the pavers, just inches away from him, and watch as he gathers the
choicest twigs. He then flies up into the palm tree and delivers the goods to the waiting beak of Mrs. Dove! She appears to be in charge of the actual construction. Which, I think, is a very sensible division of labour. After all, if men were given their heads in the design process, our houses would be fifty percent garage space, 30 percent television viewing space, and the kitchen, bath and bedrooms would have to fit into what was left. Sensible Mrs. Dove!
I was struck by the comforting reliability of nature; the certainty that, no matter how dreary the winter, Spring
will come; the dependability of little creatures to be so in sync with the universe that they know exactly what they have to do, the best time to do it, and, most importantly, how to do it!
How often, in the past, have I watched wistfully as a gaunt mother bird has tirelessly foraged for worms and bugs to feed a monster baby, twice her size, who relentlessly follows her about the garden, doing nothing with his own beak but squawking at mama, and holding it open while she stuffs it with worms?
And empathized!
Or watched the perilous flight training sessions, where baby birds are prodded by mama and papa into death defying leaps from the nest.
And wished I were wired with such unerring instincts!
Sometimes the babies don't understand that there are predators out there [oh, how El Pussygato wishes he could get outside to be one of them!] and little birdies need to be fast learners if they wish to become big birdies! But mama is always nearby, keeping a steely eye on any would-be predators.
"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven."
"A time to be born and a time to die."
Maria has gone to a well deserved rest, but soon it will be "a time to be born" as our Brit-boy and his Beloved await the birth of their first child, our fifth grandchild. So, the wheels keep turning....Though there are times to weep and times to mourn, there are also times to laugh and times to dance. Each one has its place in the crazy quilt of life.
Rebirth is everywhere. Our lemon tree, that looked like a goner from our unusually cold winter, is suddenly covered with tiny, new green leaves! And The Bean's blueberry patch looks like it might produce enough berries for a pie. Or two. If we can get them before the birds do!
So, yes, it's been quiet around here. We're regrouping. Taking comfort from the rythms of nature, confident that the universe is unfolding exactly as it should.
