Mornings are cooler on my deck. Raspberries are ripening more slowly, and wasps are eager to take the sugary sweetness of any I've left hanging too long. Spotted robins are getting better at navigating flight. Chickadees so cheerfully chatter around the yard. Morning glory strands climb all the cords we've hung in their way, seeking the best way up - waving their growing ends back and forth, twining around each other till I introduce them to my idea of a cord. Sometimes they wind around it right away, and sometimes I need to remind them. Tomatoes are on the verge of turning.
They are strange slow COVID summer days with a powerful undercurrent of energy.
And in this season of waiting, wondering, planning, taking stock, I find myself
less afraid of old age, old trees, an old earth; of wasps and pruning
more interested in flavors
toasted coconut, garlic scape pesto, yellow and red tomatoes
more convinced that trees clapping and celebrating is more than a figure of speech
increasingly captivated and intrigued by children
so grateful for a morning chat with my sisters and brother
just as thrilled by fresh raspberries and haskaps on my cereal in the morning
more curious about what the beavers are up to on the river banks
... and increasingly intrigued and captivated by a Creator
who speaks a universe
as well as a whisper
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