Before I know it, it’s past midnight. I’ll be up until the wee hours, these June nights are so bright.
It’s such a luxury — probably the biggest of all — to freely dispose of one’s time.
Sometimes as I gaze at the birds through the window I get to witness the birth of a cloud above the fields, or see a fox running by, or the couple of hedgehogs that takes a walk on the lawn every night.
Sometimes the wind carries smells of manure from the nearby farms. But the garden smells of wet earth and wild cherry flowers. Cycling around the other night, I paused several times to take deep breaths. There were so many different smells. Spring flowers, wet forest, freshly cut fir trees.
I’m not writing as much as I wish I would. There are garden beds to dig, seedlings to start, compost piles to turn, grass to cut — nothing to complain about, really.
And then there are these creative endeavours, slowly taking shape. Notebooks being scribbled into, orders sent, ideas becoming clearer, hands becoming more agile. Scalpels cutting paper and paintbrushes dipped in watercolors.