Right when I thought I was about to lose my mind to this tornado of inventory building I had a pinch of sanity arrive here at Plume Gables and now self care has washed over me in a rogue and benevolent wave and all I can do is breathe and sigh and the reward of it.
Umber Dove has come to town.
She’s better than Santa Claus.
We’ve been sharing lunch alongside the grapevines.
Popping forkfuls of basil, mozza and tomato salad into our mouths.
Gardening for 10 hours straight.
Planting seeds.
Turning earth.
Painting our ghosts.
Dragging our skeletons out of the closet.
Pouring ourselves out (she’s a cup full, I’m half pint).
It’s a good match we women make.
She might be taller, but I’ve been running the in the mountains longer.
Midnight discussions about:
*conceptual art
*the word definition series and the weight of assigned words
*friendships and when to let go
*modeling in Milan
*the work of our men
And all the while
Pinkerton has been flipping his creamy fluff about in the verdant field of Plume Gables.
Penelope has barked at the mailman.
Farley has hunted bees.
It’s all so ordinary for being so extraordinary.