That's the way I feel today--cranky and out of sorts for no good reason. I decided this morning that my expectations of myself are just too high, that I've got too many irons in the fire, but I don't want to give anything up, don't want to quit doing any of my pursuits so that one can get the lion's share of my focus. I want to do it all, and I want to do it all well. I think that I am a pain in my own keester. And the broccoli salad I made for the weekend is tasteless.
August 24--Edouard Manet, In a Park. Tally walked along the path through the hot green shade, her capture net over her shoulder. On her back was her collecting backpack with its many padded compartments holding jars for her specimens. She loved the hot, still summer days when cicadas sang their love songs like miniature chainsaws and even the birds were quiet in the afternoon heat. Her steps were silent in the powdery dust of the path as she headed through the park toward the reedy end of the pond. That's where the big dragonflies spent their afternoons flying in and out of the sunshine like animated jewels. As she got nearer she heard a faint clatter as the breeze rose and fell. At first she thought maybe there was a hornet's nest nearby but she turned the corner to discover that someone had hung strands of colored glass beads from the ruins of an old pergola there. The beaded strings swung in the air making a soft sound and throwing multi-colored reflections like butterflies on the still water.
Ah, this I like.
--Barbara
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