Go to the farmers’ markets this week and you’ll see this whole growing season phenomenon is in full swing. Along with all the greens and early radishes, there are sugar snap peas! Strawberries! The earth seems busy these days.
This week, I started to think about how flowers—the march from snowdrop and daffodil through tulips and peonies, irises, lilies, and on—are like fireworks in slow motion.
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There are always fireworks in slow motion—this week’s candidate is the whole Weiner on Twitter debacle—if you choose to look. There are newsworthy (?) issues like this I might chime in about, but this week, I’m letting the spectacles just parade along all by their 24-hour news-cycle-driven selves.
For little other reason than it’s Friday and I’ve been working hard all week, I’m going to share a link to the thing that made me smile widest on the interwebs, apropos to nothing else.
That’s perhaps to say, the larger world, you can sometimes pick and choose how engaged to be with it. If you need a break, take it.
I couldn’t quite take a break from noting that when I went to buy a family of dolls for the dollhouse (first purchased for the eldest child) that the box on the Caucasian family did not have ethnicity declared—and all others did.
And in my random, somewhat addled way, I’ll add one more thing worth knowing about: for one weekend only at the Majestic Theater (locals, or near-locals—because this is worth a drive) Scaramouche Jones will be performed. Directed by Jeanine Haas, with Rylan Morsbach reprising his amazing role (this was produced at 3 Sisters’ Sanctuary in Goshen last summer—and it was so powerful I couldn’t stop thinking about it). So, take my word: book your tickets (running June 23-26) now.
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I’m scattered in part because I’m exhausted. A sty is telling me this, as if I needed reminding (apparently, I did), so I’m spending as much time as possible (not enough) with hot compresses on it. Lying on my bed, compress on eye, I listened to the storm yesterday afternoon, booming (like fireworks in real time).
I had an appointment for some bodywork and my body fixer-upper (that’s what his sign says) told me that the way I walk is to land very hard on my heel. Better, he explained, to take a gentler step, less effortful. I think in all ways my body’s trying to tell me something. I work hard—perhaps a little too hard.
The girl has a bug bite on her eye, and the eight year-old, pinkeye. We are a trio, that’s for sure.
