For whatever reason, I always feel compelled to take a picture of my clothes hanging on the line. I suppose it's simply explained- I just think there is something so pretty and so simple and truly elegant about laundry on the line. Such an excellent method of drying clothes when it's possible, using both solar and wind energy. And my energy too, when I consider it, because it is a tiny bit more or a chore to lug a heavy laundry basket full of damp clothes to the line than it is to open the washer, take out the items, and throw them in the dryer. For me there is no chore at all to the actual pinning of them to the line. I have my system and each category of laundry has its own place which makes it easier when I take the laundry down and fold it into the basket so that it is all neatly arranged to put away as soon as I get back in the house with it.
Isn't that ridiculous? But that's the way I am and that is the way I hang my laundry. One thing I really like about doing laundry is that it is a chore that is so definable. Unlike dusting or cleaning a bathroom, which I never feel as if I am doing thoroughly. A load of laundry is a load of laundry and when it is done and put away, that is a completed task. Of course, by that point the laundry hamper may be full again but that will be a different task for another day.
It was so warm today and so breezy that even the thickest towel got dry.
I gave the chickens fresh hay this afternoon and spread the poopy hay on some roses that I cut back awhile ago- the ones that never bloom, probably because they don't get enough sun. But it felt as if I was at least doing something to try and urge them along. Things are just popping up and popping out all over here.
The bridal wreath spirea is starting to make the miniature wreaths. Did I already post this picture? I don't think so.
The wild azalea is budding up and today when I was hauling a load of pruned vines I saw that the sweet little white wild violets are opening in the yard by the bamboo.
I brought those in and put them in my smallest "vase"- in this case a beautiful little bottle I found in the yard that must have had either some sort of medication in it or perhaps, perfume.
The hens are being as fecund as the plants, giving me anywhere from eight to a dozen eggs a day. I sort of hope and sort of very much do not hope that one decides to go broody and sit on a clutch of eggs. It's always such a perilous and anxiety-producing experience.
For me, of course. Not for the hens. I mean, they do all the work but I do all the worrying.
And on top of all of that, Mr. Moon just told me that I needed to go ahead and make some cream sauce because we will be having peas and potatoes soon. This is something I used to make back when Hank and May were tiny children. I would steam my garden potatoes and sugar snap peas in the pod and make a simple, light white sauce for them and that is one of the most delicious things in the world to my taste. But I'm pretty sure that my husband's use of the word "soon" is relative and that I do not need to get out the butter and flour and milk quite yet. Those two plants are just now busting out of the dirt.
But yes, in the near future.
As much as I dread the heat of summer there will be no stopping it so I might as well enjoy this transition from winter into summer as much as possible, noting the new growth, the flowers, the eggs, the real and true and observable rebirth we call spring.
It would be a sin not to, wouldn't it?
I think so.
Here I am, noticing, nodding my head in agreement with the way such things are arranged here on earth, feeling the ever-more swiftly running sap of it all, the quickening of life within both flora and fauna, producing the sweetest, tenderest, and perhaps strongest growth there is, and within me too.