If something is bothering you, get it checked, waiting almost never pays. An early fix may be hard, but it beats a catastrophic failure later.

I suppose if one is going on a quest, then getting plenty of rest might be a good first step. Sounds sort of prosaic, but it feels right.

I’m going on a quest. I may actually already be on one. It may have started when my wife died, or even before that. It may not be important. But suddenly things feel purposeful.

A new book is in the works. The Seasons: A Caregiver’s Tale. It will be a nature book about the hill country from the vantage point of my little home, which is a tiny spot, but so was Walden Pond, and I’m making no comparative claims, except that you can sit in one place and think.

Like an old dog, I stood in the sun yesterday and did nothing. Three times.

The feeder is up, and the birds have finally arrived. For many long days it hung there in the branches of the mesquite by the pasture fence looking abandoned. Then gradually, one at time here they came.

Once again, it’s the small things. Went on a tour of the yard yesterday with my son, the arborist, and discovered the Mexican Buckeyes are blooming. Delicate little flowers, and another spring joy …

The marie pavia roses are going to need a pruning. But I’m going to let them reveal where the cuts need to come.

The spineless cacti in the beds on either side of the drive are as limp as melted butter. The recent freeze did them no favors. But the peach tree. Oh, my. In a day or two, I do believe it will put a redbud to shame.

I felt like one of the three little pigs last night, and the wolf was at my door. The wind howled, screen doors banged, and chairs rocked on the porch. There was a low moan from the dog run. I expected rain, but none came.

Yesterday, as I sat filling out paperwork, for a dental procedure, my phone flashed on. The assistant who was helping me, said, “Oh, that’s nice,” when she saw the picture of me and my wife, in a warm embrace, on the home screen. I said, “Thanks,” then, after a small pause, added, “She passed away in August.”

It’s always the small things. They make or break things. Relationships. Jobs. Moods.

Changed the sheets, made the bed, took a long walk, and visited my wife’s grave. Yesterday was a good day because I also had a revelation.

I know spring is coming, because I can see the discrete little signs, budding leaves are all around, on the roses and on the trees. But for some reason, the start of the season seems disconsolate,,,

I spent the weekend in the company of friends. Two days. All centered around music and food.

Spring days have a nice feel to them. Chill in the morning, warming in the afternoon, chill at night. I can embark on my day’s gardening, knowing the sun will warm my work, and the evening will bring me peace.

I never really think about how many leaves are on the branches of our big oaks. They just hang there, swaying in the breeze, providing shade and shelter to me and the birds and the cats. Then comes the spring molt.

The sap is rising. My plants, squeezed within an inch of their lives by the icy hand of winter less than two weeks ago, are coming back. Lengthening days are pushing the chill hours of night toward the outer boundaries.

The Sandhill Cranes were flying yesterday. Their distinctive clucking call fell from the sky, but I could never locate the flock as it flew by. They were too high and moving too fast.

I’ve always dressed and acted to a self-image I carry around in my mind. Up until now it’s been relatively ageless, partly because it was based on the reflection I saw in my wife’s eyes.