Here in the mountains, during the summer months at least, it is all about the wind. When the wind blows, the day is cool, when it doesn’t it is warm. It was cool in the morning, warm, hot even, in the afternoon. Now it is cool again. Profound words, I know. Writing is a developed craft.
It’s not often one does a task which will almost certainly last longer than one’s own lifetime. But today I did. I planted a tree. A Redwood.
Resistant to just about everything which causes harm to trees, the only worry now is that they are naturally located in a much foggier and more rain intensive part of the state. The trees like their water, to be sure. We’ll see how they do on a mountain which has the mojave desert bumping up against its east side. The dirt was very dry, each shovel full created a tan cloud, which somehow smelled refreshing. Too dry, though, which is why the hose is dribbling down water for the next few days, or longer.
There is a simple peace in my heart tonight, a kind of peace which comes from doing those tasks allotted for the day and living up to my own expectations of self. I wrote, I ran, I edited, I even dug.
Plodding along really. If each day finds the same peace, I will really get somewhere at the end of it, all without looking too far ahead, or worrying whether I’ll do this or that tomorrow.
Daily bread, that’s all I ask.