I’m not a fan of the word job, or what it means when I have a job to do. Take writing, for instance; usually, it’s a beautiful retreat in the Catskills at a riverfront AirBnB fit with a hot tub, 500-thread count sheets, and a squeak-less porch swing.
But for some reason, today, writing is work. And it feels like I’m sitting in a cubicle next to Fred, the psychic vampire who keeps asking me stupid shit, while I punch numbers like Homer Simpson and bang my head against the desk.
As I mentioned yesterday, our rooster’s wing got clipped. Today, after he Houdini’d himself out of the pen again, Dave took the scissors to his other wing. As I type, he’s resting comfortably in the coup. The chicken, not Dave.
I’m usually not a private person, but lately, I am. And it’s nice. Maybe it’s fall urging me to bunker into my den and slow things down. I think that’s as good an excuse as any.
I uprooted and translated a calla lily, three ferns, and two hellebores out of a rocky and clay-filled area. I aim to fill the bowled-out bed with a thick layer of rich, fertilized soil before spring.
While in the dirt, I thought about how landscaping is similar to our journeys in life. And how beneficial it is to clear away and replace things that no longer work. Like our mindsets, for example.
And I’m pleased with the growth in areas I’m focusing on.
Alright, I’m out of here. I’ll see you here tomorrow night.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 