My mind was very quiet today.  Yesterday afternoon, I pushed through the last clean up at my garden.  Down came the frozen dahlias, the remnants of cosmos and zinnias, and full lily-pad vines of nasturtiums, still tender and blooming.  And this morning I cleared away the brick planter along the side of my building, where the cherry tomato was still rambling through the shrub rose, and the seed heads of the Starlight zinnias were spread across the dirt, undoubtedly helped by some eagerly nibbling, mousey assistant.  It was cold, and grey, and my nose was running.  A typical day in late October.

I did not miss my camera all day, but right at 8:00 tonight, I got that old feeling and needed to write something and see what the flowers had to show.  I don’t know if I will ever understand what the purpose of all these Sundays has been.  That’s not detachment or any fancy mindfulness state.  The things we make really just don’t owe us an explanation.

But I like the idea of getting out my knitting or sewing or glue and paper – and seeing what they have to tell me.