I wait. Watching the black steers and half-grown calves, their tails swishing at flies, ears perked forward in quiet alertness. I wait for inspiration. Sitting on the pillowless wooden front porch rocker, laptop in my lap instead of a knife and whittling block in hand. And I wait. Wait for the to-dos I see to drift past like clouds—watering the ferns and the cart full of nasturtiums, geraniums, and one lonely green bean plant. Blowing the driveway clean of weed-wacker clippings from an hour break between sessions.
Yes, I see it all. But right now isn’t the time. This is my time. My space. My moment for a long, deep breath—to feel the fan’s breeze pat me down like a gentle officer with an elderly woman holding medicinal cannabis.
The zinnias in the field to my left, their pinks like a bubblegum shop window, are another task. Not a stressful one—just something I want to do but haven’t yet. I’m going to clip a dozen or so, cut their stems at varying lengths, and try my hand at a little house arrangement. The cows, like the second hand of a clock, have moved from 12 o’clock to somewhere between 1 and 2. When did that happen? Just like time, it slips by.
The tug-of-war of needs. There’s a need to finish writing and check if the yeast is making the hamburger bun dough rise. And then there’s the need to slow down, to be still enough to hear the truest parts of myself—those thoughts that only speak when there’s room to be heard.
I did get up. Filled the watering can from the outside spigot and gave the front porch plants a drink. And as I did, a deep, full-bellied satisfaction came over me, like I was offering that water to myself. That was interesting. Because when those tasks sit on the to-do list, they feel like pressure—something looming. But when I do them in this spacious way, it’s grounding. Everything in my small corner of the world feels okay, and that settles me.
Since we last spoke, my heart rate is up, my breathing is quicker, and I’m lightly sweating. The electric lawn mower and I have been busy. When its little engine gave out, I left it where it quit, found my laptop on the rug in the middle of the grass, and plopped down. Gnats. Los of them.
With 45 minutes left until my next session, I had time to track down the Amazon delivery of bug spray. And now? I am officially repelling.
Next on the yard wish list—one I know would make me smile—is cleaning up the area between the oak trees and where the grass begins. Right now, it’s a wasteland of yard debris, thorny briars, and fire ant hills. But I picture a tidy circle, maybe with flowers or ferns, and something about that intention—those small, manicured details—makes my heart sing.
And now it’s Handmaid’s Tale with Dave on the couch time. Our time. At last.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 