Hello, loves. These are for you this morning - white geranium and coleus - to be together in pots by the end of the day with deep purple lobelia, mixed pansies and white alyssum. They're simple; quiet in a way, but intriguing, still, by variegation and form. Just the pause that I need at my doorstep.
I'm stealing moments like these - the few minutes it takes to plant just one thing, or the slip of time for a cup of tea, or the moment for just one row of knitting. Go for a drive, topless on the mountain (it really doesn't take that long). Look into the boy's eyes as you listen with all of yourself to his world. Make bread. Light a campfire. When I core a basket of strawberries for jam, or read one page of a book on the Kindle over lunch, when I pass the chalkboard and read the quote, I am reminded that all this is life. And I must keep room for it.
Because there has, for several months now, been a wonderful, yet wide-bottomed project going on here that has threatened, at times, to squash the breath (and time) out of nearly everything else. It's a beautiful project, a fun project, a creative project that I've poured myself into. It's one that I'm so proud of and, as I wrap it up in a ribbon and tie the final bow, I get teary-eyed and giddy all at the same time at the thought of being able to share it with all of you soon.
But, wow. Has it ever challenged me. Challenged the simplicity that we live for. Challenged the way I view the twenty-four in each day. Challenged what I thought I knew about myself and my abilities. It's made me know how much the creative process costs. It's taken my view and stretched it, broadening it with a much wider lens. This project that's taken up a towering portion of our life, has taught me well.
It's taught me about keeping room.
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