You knew you'd be tired, after a big family gathering at your home Saturday (around 50 people came to wish Mom well). You know it's nearly always a delayed reaction to your system, the way the fibromyalgia "strikes" between one and three days later. Then doing things feels, more than usual, like trying to swim in Jello.
Still, you went for a short swim this morning (in water) and accomplished bits of stuff this afternoon, and now here you are posting on your blog, even. But this feels pretty okay, with sunshine on the maple leaves, on artichokes by the driveway, on the deck umbrella Tim raised Saturday for people to visit under (it got almost hot out). Wonderful conversations buzzed that day, indoors and out. Mom beamed. The yard brought a peaceful joy to some, sneezes and congestion to others. All in all, it was worth it.
Monday you helped your parents greet people at the pioneer cemetery. A man stopped to visit whose great-grandfather owned the land your house and yard now occupy. Back at home, you read in the best spot, on the tool shed's warm step. Then you rode with Tim's dad and sister to the other cemetery, toting flowers and water bottles, and at last all the grave markers were found.
Tuesday you found your essay, "Our House Finches," newly published at Ruminate. And you were happy. Then you ran errands and stopped for a whole family making to swim in Delta Pond. Then James gave two yard tours, one for relatives who missed the party Saturday, and one for neighbors also actively working on permaculture-type yards. Twice people came inside and visited around the table, Westley meowing a greeting, the tea-kettle sighing on a cooler evening, no less beauty-lit, gathering ribbons of stories.