Come inside. It's warm in here.
A fierce wind battles the garden. Heavy rains, then sleet and finally... here we go. First snows of the season arrive with a vengeance. As I haul tender flowers, indoors, all to be seen is a wall of white.Yes, very early this year. But, if you're a local, you know it's a false alarm. Or, do you?
Geranium rescues from the storm.
Sure enough, blue skies and sunshine returned. The unwelcome powder quickly melted away. And, here I sit, trying to scrounge up a partner in crime for this afternoon's horse adventure. Without any luck.
This island girl wouldn't have lasted a second in that storm.
My fair weather riding friend hopped a plane to Florida. (Overreaction?) That's one of the weird aspects of living here. This being a Delta hub, lots of folks work for that behemoth. The only perk to such a horrible job is free flights wherever, whenever you 'need' them.
Freesia warming up, indoors.
I devoted my storm day to cleaning a closet ~ aka the catch all spot for piles and piles of stuff that need a permanent home somewhere, just not sure where.
I also found a diary. Mine. From 2005. When I was so miserable, I could barely get out of bed in the mornings. Though getting out of bed was the one thing I absolutely, positively had to do. Climb outta there, make that bed, so you can't crawl back into it. Get up and meet the challenges of the day.
For most of that year, I forced myself to write 5 positive things, each day.
Well, that was a delicious find, so I abandoned the cleaning project, brewed a pot of tea and read that journal, cover to cover. Took the better part of a lazy afternoon. I'd written volumes of drivel in that book ~ but it was all so cryptic! I never once spelled out what that hellish setback was all about. If anyone could understand it, you'd think it would be me. But, I can't, for the life of me, remember what happened that year to make me so sad.
Look at the cover of that 2005 journal. It's a Kincaid thing. A cottage surrounded by more flowers than any sane woman could ever need. That was the winter I studied to become a master gardener. And, this joint has been going uphill ever since! Who knew that flowers could turn the tables on misery? Or, that I could be working toward a goal in my head I never knew I had.
PS: What to do? Keep it? Toss it? I discarded the journal, intact. Perhaps someone will find it, read it, and go as crazy as I did, trying to decipher it. :)
Apparently there's still a wee bit o' the devil inside of me.
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