the blue muse

So far, August feels more like September. Sunny and in the 70s all week. Not that I’m complaining, it’s pretty perfect out there just now. My garden wanes and I feel myself letting go again, the way I do every year around this time, surrendering the battle for control and letting nature take its course. Allowing the mess to move in and stay for a while, the beautiful mess that is living.

I am quiet these days. Introspective. Reading with the voraciousness of a word-starved waif. I keep telling myself I should do other things, get things done and crossed off the never-ending to-do list. But each night I find my way to an open window and an unread story and there I am again, whiling away the hours.

Each year I feel myself settling deeper into my own cycle, repeating my own patterns, charting time and activity by season and habit. Small things change and life moves forward, but the rhythms inside me stay the same.

I am settled and boring and rooted. Content to take up space in my own tiny world. Content to sit in my garden or my favorite chair and travel only through other people’s pages. Content to write my own. My story is more May Sarton than Madame Bovary, and I am content with that, too, even though that hasn’t always been true.

The sky is August blue today, white wispy clouds floating high on their way to places I may never see. I watch them rushing by and smile at their impatience. I was like them, once. I may be like them again, tomorrow.

But today, I am here, watching the world spin all around me. Quiet and content and taking it in, this gift of sun and breeze and morning.

Reading life with love, and gratitude.

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