notes from the garden

our yard, if i do say so, is looking pretty damn hot right now. not only because it’s like satan’s sauna out there today, but because we have gotten phase two of garden renovation to the final stages, and it’s finally starting to resemble our original vision.

upper bank weed-ate, check.
lower yard mowed, check.
bulb garden weeded, check.
birdfeeder garden created and morning glories planted, check!
arbor day bushes all doing their bushy thing, check.
awesome tree of awesome planted, check!
giant pointy bushes trimmed around the front of the house, check!

and it’s only going to get better. brecks was having a giant sale (the 70% off kind), so i picked me up these…and some of these…and a couple of those…and this little guy…and oh yeah, that.

some of them will go in the woefully-neglected front yard, some beside the screen porch on the shady side. the others will be part of next season’s patio container garden.

i’m very excited. especially about the mimosa!!!!!!



“you don’t write anymore,” he said, quirking that too-knowing eyebrow at me as we trekked our nightly trek around the neighborhood.

a misty ribbon of guilt spiraled around my lungs and squeezed. “i’ve been busy,” i said too fast, picking up the pace.  “the symposiu-”

“the symposium’s over,” he said.

“no, it’s not!  there’s the post…planning…the…emails…the…”  i didn’t have to look at him to know that i’d have to find a stronger defense.  “i’m planning a trip to scotland!”


“so!  SO…it takes a lot of time. there’s DETAILS!”

he wasn’t buying it.

i thought about blaming my barely-functional laptop’s 10-minute load times, but even my own brain wouldn’t accept that excuse.  probably half of the writers you admire so much didn’t even have typewriters, let alone laptops!  don’t be such a wuss.

“i just…haven’t been inspired.”  it felt shameful to say it out loud.

he shrugged.  “you know how many times i’ve written something out of sheer inspiration?  maybe twice in my life.  you have to start writing when you’re not inspired, and it’ll come.”

a little field of dreams, i grant you,  but irrefutable nonetheless.  i was sitting here tonight catching up on my online reading and watching all these people create things that i couldn’t even dream of, and feeling intensely uninspired.

and then it clicked for me.  don’t get me wrong, this is by no means new information or even particularly earth-shaking; it’s just my own little personal eureka moment.  writing is like exercise.  if you hold out to do the marathon, you’ll never get off the couch.  there’s always going to be something else to do, or think about, or plan for.  i have to actively make time for this too, just like i make time to walk or bike or go bowling.

i’ll write something tomorrow.  promise.

walking after midnight

It’s a dangerous time of night, and I’m in a dangerous mood.

opening doors better left shut, picking scabs

off old wounds, writing letters I know better than to send.


I nearly wrote one of them here, but caution

(or convention) tells me not to rock the boat,

and so CRTL-A-Del has done its work. No fear —

I’ll swallow the confusion one more time

(ignore that even after all these years, it stings

going down), and I’ll be good.


No unpleasant scenes, I promise. I’ll not ask

you to remember why you hated me,

or worse, to know if you still do.

I’ll be good.


But still that rebel murmur in my ear

wonders what could have been, what still could be.

How much water flows beneath a bridge in seven years?

Love trumps pride, and here’s the thing:


I miss my friend.