Beware the Ides of March

So much is happening right now.

More chaos and confusion, and I felt a bit defeated with the Senate vote yesterday, and then hours later the Executive Order to dismantle seven more agencies, including the Institute of Museum and Library Services. It’s not even a federal agency, but an independent one, and I am so tired of the abject absence of the rule of law and also of basic common sense about government. Common decency has been lacking for some time, but the sense of dim-wittedness is exhausting. 

And then today we had actual military strikes, as though domestic tornadoes, wildfires, and severe storms weren’t enough. 

Beware the Ides of March, dear Reader. 

The promise of Spring

This past Winter has felt longer, colder, and more frozen than most.

Today’s rain turned to a wind-and-thunder storm, and then it broke for a moment, shining a beam down on the rooftop terrace, and arcing a promise of Spring into the sky like a beacon from Zeus.

All will be well.

Bidden or unbidden, Spring is coming.

Drops of sunlight between the storms

The sun has finally come back out, and it’s trying to make up for lost time, blaring down in full-on summer intensity and making a steamy mess of the air above the waterlogged lawns. FarlowTheDog and I enjoyed a round of frisbee, and then he found a Very Good Stick, and then we both wanted water for our efforts. Back inside, I took out the bag of salad things I brought from home (many thanks to @Mistr for telling me about the existence of 2 gallon ziploc bags!). I washed two kinds of lettuces and a handful of broad-leafed spinach from the farm, added some fresh basil, radish microgreens, sugar snap peas, carrots, and cucumber. I was disappointed to realize I left the dried cranberries back at the loft, and decided to make use of the fresh fruit I have on hand — grapes, blueberries, and strawberries. I tossed the whole thing with olive oil, red wine vinegar, and cracked black pepper. It was the perfect foil to the day’s humidity, and left me feeling restored and refreshed. 

 

The local branch of the National Weather Service confirmed an F1 tornado touched down in the town next to me (about 8 miles or 12 km away). Another wave of storms is expected late afternoon or overnight, with possible high winds, hail, and—according to the weather service—“the possibility of a tornado cannot be ruled out.” Okay, Universe, I hear you. Time to charge the devices, rest up, and download any media that I might want to watch tonight (or even tomorrow—is Mother Nature conspiring to give me the day off?).   

I’m interested in checking out Drops of God, a multilingual show about sommeliers with tragic backstories and dysfunctional family pressures. Sounds like it’s just up my alley. I’m going to let season one download while FarlowTheDog and I take a short walk before it turns nasty again.

Storms on the Mountain

I woke up to the rumble of storms. 

By the time I had slipped into my boots and fed the hens, the sky was streaked all around, Zeus's sparks making the field feel like a disco ball dance club. I came into the Cabin, kicked my boots back off, and put on the kettle on while the rains went from persistent to torrential. 

I really like it here.

Hello, Ida

The air has a gathered poise, like a stiff-backed great aunt sitting in a chair watching you approach with what she's sure is to be disappointing news.

The rain is coming.

The storm might be one that settles in like a houseguest, because I was suddenly craving macaroni and cheese.

I put a half pound or so ditalini on to boil and fetched the white American cheese from the fridge, slicing about a quarter pound off thinly. When the pasta was done and draining, I rinsed the pan and put it back on the stove with a half cup ish of butter over medium low heat. I tore the slices of cheese slowly into the butter and added some minced garlic and a splash of milk. I whisked it all slowly, adding another splash of milk to help it all come together, then folded the pasta in by small portions until everything was mixed through. In another life I would have put the whole mix into a baking dish and covered it with seasoned breadcrumbs (from the croutons that are always about from the leftover bread making), dotted it with more butter and baked it gently for a bit. But today is not that day. I scooped a little less than half the mix into a bowl and enjoyed it just as it is. It's a delicious, creamy foil to the damp grey day, not that I'm cold exactly, but there's a nagging chill that seems to clutch at my ankles, calling to mind old herb-collecting women who wear thick socks and rain boots with skirts.

Storm

 

 

 

The storm blew in from the west, a curtain drawn around the mountains. Watching the lightning strike Read Mountain and then head east towards the cathedral was a beautiful sight. The thunder shook the windows and the wind lashed the rain against the panes. I chopped ginger to add to the tea basket. I am blessed, friends.

Thursday

Thunderstorms and ice cream.

Graph paper dreams of things yet to come.

Is there any better way to end the day?

 

The Resting Spot

This week was a crush of writing and rain; by Wednesday evening I felt as though I had run a marathon at a sprint. Last night's storm was an articulation of the crashing spirit of exhaustion.

The blog post is edited and submitted. I crafted and then drafted a syllabus, which might serve as the framework for a research proposal; it's the second in what is becoming a series. The editor of an anthology sent me a set of artwork for the upcoming discussions of the stories, pieces that each have a philosophical query at their heart. The abstract for an upcoming conference presentation is sitting in The Resting Spot. I, too, am in a still space today. My calendar has no due dates or task lists, and I've set the phone on Do Not Disturb. There will likely be another patch of rain this evening; I can feel the subtle shifts in the muscles around my skull, just above the right temple. The contractions move my glasses just a bit, like an affectionate great aunt tugging my ear, feeling as though The Way is beckoning me to join it in the quiet. 

Classes begin in ten days, and I'm considering setting an out-of-office automatic replay as I sit with the end of a season. Half-past August always has that gathering-up-to-move energy for me. Writing, music, knitting, the fiction of philosophy. This is my vacation. This is my world.

Goodnight!

The persistence of rain ramped up to a mighty storm tonight, with winds whipping buckets of water about as though the whole house was being tossed at sea and thunder cracking hard enough to open the front door. I loved it, of course. I thought I would go to bed early, but the storm blew in a second round of tempestuousness just as I was turning out the light. I broke open the kindle and read Tana French, the perfect companion to A Night Like This. Tiu got out of his little bed and pulled his blanket near, snuggling down close by. Life is good.

 

Goodnight, bones.

Goodnight, ball.

Goodnight, blanket.

Goodnight, squall.