Saturday morning I jolted awake and swung my legs over the side of the bed so that I could rush to the backdoor and let Slip out who, I swear, was whining. It turned out to be Agnew practicing his adolescent crow. I am learning that adjusting to the new normal is no easy feat. It takes time to establish and accept a new routine.
Granted, it's easier now than it was the first few days when I'd wake to a brief moment of confusion wondering if Slip had made his way to the sofa on his own. I am still sitting to the side in my armchair so that he can sit next to me. I ask Baby to fill the space but she refuses, staying loyal to Michael.
The days go on and the heart slowly heals. It was a fortunate thing I think, that the weather was so extraordinary this weekend and I was able to spend hours outside, first with a group of garden bloggers in Cedar Creek and then on Sunday in my own yard.
I cleaned up the compost bins and raked and rearranged the herb garden. It's time to get ready for a fall garden. I'm starting late and I can feel time rushing in on me. The garden beds need to be amended, the coop needs to be dealt with to accommodate the new girls and paths need to be cleared of weeds.
I tried to sit and work on a story yesterday but it was too much to ask of myself it seems. I had nothing and I fussed and fretted and worried that maybe I'd never have anything to put down on paper ever and what was I thinking? I'll just have to try again. At least that's what I tell myself this morning. I also tell myself that maybe fiction isn't my bag of tricks and that maybe I should correspond with Verlyn Klinkenborg or Mary Oliver, not that either would respond but you can't always control the flights of fancy that your mind makes.
These first days of autumn are the first days of my new routine. It's a bumpy transition. Eventually I'll carve out a niche and then? And then it will change again.