In an effort to practice more writing and less blogging (and to try to work up to that 1000 words a day goal that I wrote about and subsequently ignored) I’m going to start posting a writer’s style weekend recap on Mondays. A post where I talk about my weekend at great length with lots of details on specific feelings and such, and less of a bulleted run-down with pictures in-between. So, you’ll either love it or hate it. But at the very least, I hope you appreciate it.
There’s something about the heat that spurs me to action. I know, the opposite is true for most people. But not me. Rather than reaching out to me with it’s sultry, hot tendrils and pulling me under it’s long waves of exhaustion, it breathes almost a new spirit in me, rekindles a fire that was extinguished by a long, dreadfully cold winter. And now that I’m in New England rather than Texas, the winters kill me more than they used to, and it takes the heat a long time to wake me up.
But wake me up it has, as the last few days have been mid-70s or higher. A temperature that once had me covering my arms with long-sleeves or wishing for hot chocolate and a warm blanket now has me favoring projects over sleep, community over isolation, hard, laborious work over cozy, soft cuddles. I wake up excited for what the day will bring, and I go to bed disappointed that the sun is finished for the day.
This past week was spent working in the yard. We tore up the ground and dug a long trench to bury our TV cable. We realized it didn’t take much effort for Foster Kiddos to dig it up to play with it, and the exposed cable was a problem needing remedy before Future Children arrive. We enlisted the help of our friend and his daughter, a three year old who spent more time joyfully throwing dirt from the ground into her bucket and then back again. After the dirt was broken up, replaced, and smoothed down again, after we dug up every last root left by plants planted by the people before us–plants who weren’t content to stay in their corner and insisted on taking root all throughout our tiny yard last year–after the promise of their return was dug up and dumped out, we went and bought some grass seed and some plants. Mostly vegetables, some herbs, and all things that were already healthily growing. My thought being that if they’re already flowering, then it’ll be harder to kill them.
I made myself a two-pallet garden and I now have my lettuce, tomatoes, onions, strawberries, herbs, and bell peppers in rows. As much as I may love the heat, our grass seed and our veggies do not. I often come home to find them half-wilted. One spray of the garden hose and they perk up, but I’m afraid they’re not going to last too long.
I have dreams for that yard. Dreams conspired over hot chocolate and under warm blankets with the husband all throughout the winter. Dreams that are finally be acted upon. Though the space is tiny, I imagine growing food for our little family. I imagine two little girls digging for worms, or rolling their trucks through the terrain’s tiny hills and barely-there mountains. I imagine spending many a night under stars and outdoor lights talking about life and love while the kids and dog run under our feet. I imagine sitting at a tiny table for two, or a picnic table built for four, with just the husband–he’ll drink coffee in a giant mug, I’ll sip lemonade from a straw–as we dream up more plans for our space, for each other, and for our children.
I imagine all the scenes as I walk out the front door and down the sidewalk to hook up our water hose and while I walk back into my house, through my living room, and out the back door where the water is already sputtering out of the hose, ready to be used. (Our condo complex didn’t seem to think it was necessary to put a spigot in the actual backyard, so we go to great lengths to help the grass and plants grow.) I imagine all these things while I press one thumb over the hose opening and spray the grass until it’s all thoroughly damp. I continue to imagine it while I do the reverse process of turning the water off and putting the hose away.
Right now these hopes for our near future are just imaginations–dreams–that fleet away the second my attention is diverted by a barking dog or a yapping neighbor. But I know, and you know, that dreams don’t have to stay lingering in the black hole of unseen space. I know that I have a hope and a future, and that even if these particular dreams don’t come about exactly how I want them to, there will be dreams that will become living breathing things. And for that, and the lettuce leaves that are perking up, for those things I am so very grateful.