You have to wait until 7.
“Look! There’s a giant egg out there! See! That yellow one!” “That’s not an easter egg sweetie, it’s a lemon.”
Blueberry muffins, coffee, water, mimosa.
“I guess I better go grab those easter eggs.” I walk out to the rear of the yard and am overwhelmed by the scent of lemon and orange blossoms. It reminds of the ranch last spring and every path you wondered down was lined with the fragrance of orange and lemon and jasmine.
I think we might have a peach tree. He asks me if I can imagine how cool it would be to make peach cobbler from our own peaches, all golden brown in the cast iron skillet from Aunt Janice. I can. I can imagine it.
A hammock and a book.
“May we all seek to approach the world thus—as a place of overwhelming wonder and also inevitable transformation, where there are always new dewdrops to discover, clinging at dawn to every leaf.” - Lost Worlds of the San Francisco Bay Area by Sylvia Linsteadt
If could write as simple and beautiful as this, yes, please.
Rotating chairs to chase the sun.
We think about the things we’ll grow in the next house. But really I should start now. Bring me the rosemary and the sage and the thyme, tomatoes and blueberries and blackberries.
Just a little bit longer.
The window experiment worked. Feeling refreshed after a pleasantly cool night. But will this work in July?
Thirty minutes alone before I need to leave. I love home. I love being home. I love that this is my home.
Microclimates. Sun at the base of the hills and now I’m driving up into the clouds.
All the sheep are gathered in one big group. From here they look like large stones studding the hillside.
I can tell by the look on his face.
He says he’ll take my shift for tomorrow. I know the kids will be happy. It’s too late to make new plans, but at least I’ll get to relax after the kids hunt for their eggs and I’ll drink a mimosa and go for a walk.
The hills are indeed turning brown already. I was telling her that I think, maybe, we really are just closer to the sun. I know it doesn’t make sense but that’s how it feels. I am closer to the sun.
Fill the eggs. Hide the eggs. Laugh about how the two youngest still believe in the Easter Bunny. Steal only a handful of jelly beans.
It’s officially tank top weather here and I love it.
Before I begin making my list, I write the intention at the top of the page: More veggies and fruits, lighter on the gluten and dairy.
Okay, okay. Let’s go get some wine. It’s a holiday weekend. I talk him out of going all the way to Berkley and we settle on Walnut Creek instead.
I tell him that one of the things that would keep me from moving here is overhearing a conversation like this. “We couldn’t have this conversation if a woman was here….What he said was, ‘Women aren’t as good as men at science and that’s why they aren’t in those positions and I mean, he got crucified for it….My wife says she has to work twice as hard to get the same recognition as her male counterparts….She says she needs to leave the company because it isn’t friendly to working women. What does she mean? I’m surrounded by women in the workplace.”
I want to turn around, walk over to the table, and slap their middle-aged-white-male-fragile-sexist-racist-classist faces. I stuff olives into my mouth instead.
“This is your first summer here, right? It' gets really hot.”
Denim dress. I opt not to belt it for comfort.
Date night. Paloma. Delamotte Brut. Shrimp, salad, porkchop. brownie. It’s almost there.
Pastel colors in the sky. Home before the sun has fully set.
The work never ends.
Oops. Not enough eggs.
I step over a handful of snails and walk through the garden bed to snip the rose. It’s as if it doubled in size overnight.
They won’t stop talking about the dead racoon and rabies.
Alignment over balance.
I realize that the queasy feeling is my gut telling me that I’m pursuing a course that would make me exactly like them. And that’s exactly what I don’t want.
Staring at all of these words is making me cross-eyed. But I’m putting it on my list of things to do. Because I want it.
All the laundry. It takes me 2 hours and 45 minutes to just fold all of the things that had been sitting in the baskets for the week.
It’s the hammock.
The little corner fills up with high school boys in their baseball uniforms. Maybe it’s because I’m about to go pick up my own son, clad in a baseball uniform, voice not quite as deep. I feel thick with loss at the idea of him aging, and also excited for what could be possible for him.
What are we eating for breakfast today?
Water, water, water. Four snails so far. The distance they travel at such a slow pace. I never would have thought I’d be so captivated by these little things.
I’m so bad with taking my vitamins.
He says something about the roses. The blooms are larger than they were yesterday. It’s early but it already feels so warm.
I really hope she moves soon so that I can leave because I’m too nervous to try to pull out of this space with her so close to me. Another one of those random anxiety things about driving a car.
Books on the table. Food. Some insight. Introductions. And yet I leave feeling slightly unsure of myself. This might be one of the alignment things she talked about.
But everything is so beautiful.
What is that? He stepped on a snail.
It occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all. This is one of the reasons I stopped inserting opinions in public spaces. But I didn’t do or say anything wrong. But I’m still obsessing over it. But I probably should have just not said anything at all.
Okay, okay. I’ll eat the ice cream sandwich.