Yesterday, as I was mowing the yard, I drove right into my old life.

Nature. Life’s little instruction book. Particularly, when it comes to making do.

This is the spring of the two blooms. My oaks are putting on new leaves, again. Nice.

My poor mountain laurel. It got bit hard by the big freeze. I’d never seen it bare branched until now. But there it was, nothing to show for its years in the ground except brown wood.

One of the nicest things that can happen is to have someone want to make your acquaintance, to say hello I’ve always wanted to meet you.

I was surrounded by my own little diverse garden of friends who provide shade and comfort and feed my soul to help keep me going. Together, I think we might prevail.

The wild onion. A treasure in the natural garden.

I tried. I failed. I am going back to setting my alarm for 5:30. I’m still trundling off to bed around 9:30 with the goal of eight hours of sleep, but I’ll settle for seven or even 6 and a half. But staying in bed until 6:30 is over.

It’s a gray, misty morning and the air is full of moisture. Sounds are muffled. There’s a promise of rain.

Wow. Three days away from writing this little blog and it’s like all the words in my brain decided, “If you’re not going to use us, we’re just going to head out.”

This past winter I introduced pansies into the flowerbed beneath the big oaks. I needed the color. Something nice to look at out the window.

What used to be a long look at a wide expanse of pasture is now a short view of trees with the pasture visible only in spots between them. That’s okay. It’s part of the general feeling of the house as it becomes engulfed in trees all around. We’re disappearing.

I like these cool mornings and warm afternoons. The former is dedicated to casual yard work, while the latter is dedicated to riding activities, like mowing on the zero turn.

Cue James Brown. I feel good. Two weeks into a six-week group grief counseling session, things are falling into place.

The ground beneath the big peach tree is littered with the bodies of little, gonna-be peaches, except now they’re on the ground and won’t become peaches.

Yesterday morning, all I could tell you about the rain was that it was falling. Today, this morning, I am able to report in what volume. Nearly, two inches.

Bill Worrell gave me a gift once and never even knew he did it. He threw a Christmas party that was open to all comers.

It has come to this. From the drive as I enter it, I can no longer see the house. Trees obscure the view, trees that once were barely more than head high.

The air outside my house is in an agitated state. Through my back window the mesquite whips about as does the Sumac and the trees along the far fence line.

I finally got around to trimming back the deadwood of the once vibrant Barbados Cherry. Turns out, it’s cherries, as in multiple plants.