Well, I’m back from Marathon and I’ve gone from having my day intensely planned to having no plans at all. The day once again stretches out before me, empty waiting for me to fill it with whatever strikes my fancy.

I’m still learning. Things. Skills. Information. I have curiosity and the willingness to listen. My journey to Marathon this week is a microcosm of my journey through life.

Took a dip in the spring at Balmorhea yesterday. A long dip. We got there early. Staked out our spots. Inflated the floats. Got into the pool. We floated and talked. Friends arrived. More friends arrived. We met new friends.

A final bit on my grief story. My three children. They’ve all been supportive. They backed me on my decision to move their mother to memory care, and they’ve been there for me since she passed.

Yesterday’s grief story, while a story about grief, was incomplete. Part of the tale. Another part is the group of old friends, the ones who rallied round, kept in touch, invited me out, took me to football games, celebrated my birthday, bade me sing.

This is another grief story. Today I head to Marathon, Texas for a small music festival, the aptly named Marathon Songwriter’s Festival.

Sunday. Yesterday. August 4 was the fourth anniversary of my wife’s death. It passed without much notice. Only a close friend and a cousin offered condolences. And I think that’s as it should be.

High up in the middle of the big chinquapin oak is a dove’s nest. I discovered it one day quite by accident. I was standing by the tree with my hand on the trunk, thinking how thick it felt and remembering back to the days when we planted it.

It is odd in the first days of August to look out the kitchen window and see a lawn of intense green. A lawn that would make a suburban dad proud. A lawn that would make an HOA smile. A lawn that speaks of a surfeit of water. A lawn that speaks of rain.

Got up this morning, made the bed, and thought, this is an odd thing, making my bed when no one is looking.

I’m still thinking about space. Although yesterday it was about emptiness. About clearing away things to give yourself room to breathe, to focus on what’s important.

I got to thinking about space yesterday. Emptiness. The space between things. The void that gives you time to think, to pause, to reflect, to look.

There’s big medicine and there’s little medicine. Mostly, I’ve been writing about big medicine. Life threatening things, aneurysms, hearts. But that little medicine is still there. Last Wednesday my back spasmed when I bent over at the waist to pick up a bowl rather that stoop down.

I like dew on freshly mown grass, the tracks of the mower clear and clean. I like dew on light green leaves, the new growth. I like dew beneath my feet. An abundance of moisture.

I’ve been on a mission over the last several years combatting bindweed. Bindweed is winning. In fact, I now know my enemy’s true name, Purple Bindweed.

After last summer, I swore if another string of 100 degree days fell upon me, I would head north until it cooled. Mother nature must have wanted me in Texas, however, because so far, this summer has been delightful.

Metaphorically I’ve been staring at my navel for nearly ten years. Now, for the first time, I am acutely aware of what lies behind said navel.

The rains came. I cleaned. I dusted. Vacuumed. Mopped. Stored. The countertops are nearly empty. The floors bare. As I suspected, my mood lifted. Improved.

Today feels like a low running river, there’s movement if you look close, but there are plenty of pools of stagnant water.

A sage plant sits on either side of my driveway entrance, a third sits opposite my kitchen window along the north fence, and a fourth sits behind the big oaks, ostensibly to block the view from the street of the space behind the workroom. They are all, in gloriously, flourishing full bloom, purple delights, beneficiaries of coolish summer weather and rain.