…is about how I summed up my feelings about summer in general and this moment in particular in an email to a faraway friend today.
I'm grateful to be making money, but sick and tired of working every damn and day and how busy the island is. The same gratitude goes for Charlie's business, I glad they're keeping busy, working hard, but very aware that the other side is that I never see him.
I'm also grateful for my family and friends, of community, but sometimes I wish I lived somewhere else all by my lonesome. With so many events and occasions ahead, July is already a month written off in advance, full with no empty spaces available.
(Awesome tote from Epicenter!)
I'm grateful for my garden, and the amazing abundance in which things are growing, but I'm exhausted by the weeding and the hand-watering and the prospect of putting up produce.
(Wonderful amulet gifts from kind and generous strangers ♥)
I'm grateful for my health, but tired of all the effort I need to be putting into keeping my body nourished and well-oiled and stretched and exercised.
I'm grateful for the long days and short nights, but weary of the equally long hours of work, short hours of sleep.
As discussed before knowing something is not the same as feeling it.
When there's no time or space to enjoy the good things in life, I still feel grateful to have them, to be part of them, but I don't feel the joy.
Overall, when I'm tired and weary and over-worked and thin of patience, I have to remind myself to stop, to relax to watch and listen.
In the summer, my joy sits under the leaves, hidden but fat, like a berry, or a squash, waiting to suddenly get big and be revealed. It hides in flowers as a neon-yellow bumble bee, and hums outside the windows as a hummingbird.
It appears suddenly at twilight in the warm air not cooling, or a sudden misty rain shower right before it's time to water.
It wanders through the yard as fawns and turkey chicks, as curious chickens testing the fruit trees and their tiny, bitter fruit.
In a room full of people, it suddenly fills everything with the golden late-afternoon light, moving us all away from our schedules and into the present.
It hides somewhere between saying yes, and saying no, often invisible, always hard to find, but appearing frequently enough to assure me that it's still there, waiting patiently for this hectic, expectation-laden season to be over. And for that, I'm grateful.
(The single most joy-making thing in my life right now: 14 wild baby turkeys wandering through our yard!)
How's your summer going? Joyful, I hope?