There is a season…

The change of seasons is subtle.  Blankets of colorful blooms in the garden have given way to weedy things like Goldenrod and Purple Loosestrife. The bees love the Goldenrod. On Saturday, when I opened the hive and dug all the way to the bottom, there were thousands of busy workers laden with bright yellow pollen sacks.  In their haste to deposit their booty, some smeared my gloves and the color was rich and bold.

The nights are cool; great sleeping weather and the daylight is noticeably shorter.  It feels like a lifetime ago that I wrote on this day in 2009:

It’s one of those nights.  It’s been stifling hot all day with no breeze and big fat rain drops splashed the windshield on the way home but no relief came.  Suddenly a wind came up and the clouds scudded across the sky.  The temp dropped 10 degrees in a matter of minutes and the sky was dark with fluffy gray clouds.

 The crickets are calling and the moon is obscured, peeping out in buttery yellow smears every once in a while. 

 I didn’t ride tonight.  I should have.  But by the time I hit New Ipswich it was 7:45pm and still hot.  I had stopped to have my car looked at by the detailing shop in Pepperell and that took up the time I would have had to get to the barn and get tacked up.  My neighbors,  Lynnie and Ross called to say they were making dinner and I am.  I stopped at the house long enough to run Tucker around and wear him out so that when I left he was only a little pissed off. 

Dinner was steamers, barbecued Chicken and salad.  Good and I managed to get home in time to write. 

 A horribly frustrating day at work ended not so badly at all.  Now if I can just get my butt in gear to have Night and I in shape for Huntington on the 22^nd.

I was working over thirty miles away, competing  Night Mare in regular Events, and had a dog named Tucker. I can’t imagine leaving the house at 7:30 every morning and not being home until 8pm. But I was soaking up my surroundings and finding the time to write it down. Four years of seasons.

For years we were celebrating Jeff’s birthday on this day, the most magnificent was his 50th birthday at the farm in Lunenburg.  I threw a surprise party for him.  He returned the favor when it was my turn. Seasons of snow and wind, seasons of sun and breezes.

Seasons of hope and seasons of despair.  Finding joy in the particular season I’m in is my goal.