Long sticky summer nighs. Time enough to think and worry and fret, to the rhythm of the sighing fan.
Summer holidays are officially over for me. I’ve started a new job. We’re not in Kansas anymore.
Funny, but things feel much the same. Still, I can feel the onset of stress, its tidal pull.
The Guitar Player cooked up a whimsical summer meal the other night, inspired by her prolific, luminious garden. Each dish had to have one ingredient from her early harvest. Thus: sensual eggplant packages stuffed with bocconcini, cherry tomato and basil. A lively beet-citrus salad. Gorgeous lamb burgers with lavender. Freshly-picked greens salad with avocado dressing.
I supplied the blueberry cornmeal cake and the vinho verde.
I get up very early in the morning, with the night’s last cool breath. I water my tomato plants. I pull out books and computer, and sit on the deck, and design courses and plan readings. This is little different from any other August in the past ten years of my life.
Well, except for the tomatoes. I have never successfully grown tomatoes in my life. Mine are valiant, green and determined.
I think I can. I think I can.
I know I can.