It’s a joke. Every Sunday, we promise each other that we won’t work much. I won’t write, blog, take pictures, visit the birds, or choose the right lens. She won’t blog, work hard all day, climb trees, make repairs, or create something new. Our day, we promise, will be one of quiet contemplation, reading, or rest. Both workaholics, we wear out by Saturday.
As I’m writing (after taking my bird photos and rushing down to the park for some pictures of the last truckload of food from the Army of Good), we laugh. This time, this Sunday, we just swore, we’ll stop work at noon (until I put up my flower photos, maybe) and take some pictures. It will be a day of rest. But the sun is suddenly out, so I’ll take some flower photos. She’s talking about doing some gardening this afternoon.
I’ve been waiting for this Red Wing blackbird to sit still for me; he finally did this morning. So I had to take his photo and put it up. I have a poem that wants to come out, though I keep telling myself it can wait until morning.
My Titmouse pal comes to see me every morning.
Maria is still in the woodshed moving heavy logs over to the side door for next Spring.
As always, I worry about Maria pulling a muscle if she keeps at it too long. “How are you?” I ask. “I love this kind of work,” she said. “I needed a chore like this today.” She needs another shore, and I need less hair. But she loves to work. Before this, she repaired a broken dog’s poop rake.
What can I say? We love to work, and we love the work we choose to do. There is plenty of it. We can stop after lunch…: )
Above, Sarah texted me a photo of the Army of Good shipment that arrived yesterday. The amazing people of the Army of Good just keep on coming. They are miracles sent by angels to show us all what it really means to be human.
When I went to urgent care last week to get something checked out, the receptionists checked “retired” onto my reception chart. “I’m sorry,” but that’s not accurate. I’ll retire when I die.” She graciously apologized and corrected the form.