Word Return

Our splendid summer fog bank rolled up the glen in the late afternoon yesterday, smothering all sense of sun and moon. As the fog moved on a light wind, I had to sweater-up to remain outdoors. Over night it appears to have grown thicker. These new mornings of me being home rather than in the world of the rushing cause me to be more pensive, less agitated with the world about me, as was becoming my pattern before retirement. Now I can hear birds twittering to awaken me, so much nicer than the electronic buzz and hiss I once relied upon to get me moving.

I keep a small fountain bubbling outdoors beside my writing place and listen to the birds swoop down for a morning sip. This is my new-found daily task, bird listening. It pays very little on the economic scale, but rewards me in other ways that I had forgotten about through years of drudgery. A new song, a new life, this sense of wonder and discovery, somewhat like that of my childhood, helps me lift from sleep, letting me merge with the morning consciousness of the forest.

My tasks for the day include working on a new section of garden that I am designing to cut off my view of the road below. There really is nothing interesting for anybody on the road to see, but when I am out in the evenings tending my campfire some passersby think part of my house is burning down. They stop and look to make sure I’m okay. Now all they will see is a soft orange glow from behind a few potted plants.

I have subscribed for the summer to a local farmer’s Friday food pick-up service, and thus my other task for today is go out and see what produce and flowers he has picked from his fields for me. My vegetable garden this year is meager because of the house remodeling project that dwindled on through the planting season. Maybe next year the soil and I will be in much better shape. This year I am privileged to enjoy vegetable gardening vicariously by going up the road to the old farm where others do the growing for me. I receive pleasure in rewarding this family for their efforts to maintain a vegetable farm in this day and age when so much good top soil has been laid waste by development. The small amount of money I give them this year, even if I do not continue to support them next year, will, I trust, encourage them to keep a-hoeing. The farm could so easily become a cluster of pricey homes rather than a cornucopia of bright-colored vegetables.

My Kindle disappointed me this past week by freezing about half of the start-up screen so that much of the text is no longer visible. From my call to the tech center I learned that it is beyond repair and beyond warranty, so I had to order a new replacement. I have been thumbing through real-life books instead this past week. They have already begun to strike me as something quaint and old-fashioned. Two years or more of reading primarily with the Kindle has changed how I interact with the world of words. I never thought I would be able to make the transition from paper to electronic ink, but gradually the Kindle has won me over. I await the new replacement Kindle so that I may continue reading Augustine’s Confessions. My goodness the man had a lot of confessing to do! I feel guilty myself for having to cut him off while I wait for his electronic words to return.

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