Yesterday morning we awoke to just below 60F weather.
There was a westerly breeze sifting through the trees and
the air felt cool on the skin. That kind of weather always
spurs me to action.
When you heat with wood, there are no seasons,
there is, instead, perpetual gathering and procuring
wood for the burning time. It is an elemental way
to be, a sort of hunter-gather mind set that evolves
without you really noticing.
A bunch of tree limbs with fingers of branches
lay on the ground heading up the hill. I spent the
morning filling a barrel with twigs for kindling
and raking up the leftovers to line the fence
line to keep Mr. Rusty the dig master from
finding the edges easily.
We have been so dry that few insects have
been available for the omnivorous ducks
to feast on and get their protein. When this
happens I invade the leaf mold with trug and
spade and give to them heaping moundfuls
of worm laden leaves and decaying matter,
something I like to call the Festival of Worms.
The ducks go at the piles like kids lining up
underneath an exploding pinata waiting
for the barrage of candy to drop.
They are happy, I am happy.
While all of this is going on, my mind
has a chance to wander freely and gather
in ideas for journalling and painting. A little
dancing to the base groove sounds of Marcus Miller
and I was ready to paint…
Hanging Out in the Summertime
How do you hang out in the summertime?