The daily routines, holding structures as I still think of them. Another icy morning out here, rain fell again overnight and everything is a deep juicy green — unusual out here — saw two red-bellied tortoises out in the veld when walking, streams swollen and rushing down from the mountain slopes. Counted five kestrel and two hawks on rocky outcrops. The Great Dane has just come in smelling wonderful because he has dug up a rose-scented pelargonium — going out to fill in the hole, I see that the montbretias and chismanthus are flowering, great trusses of orange and red. Everything very messy and overgrown.
How sober life fills up with what really matters. Good strong coffee brewing on the stove, tender emails from friends, baby birds squeaking in fragile weaver nests, meaningful work and the phone calls that ask how we really, really do feel here and now. Here is the dog nudging me with his wicked sandy black snout and looking up at me with complete trust and happiness, so that I remember this poem from Jane Kenyon:
By Jane Kenyon
The dog has cleaned his bowl
and his reward is a biscuit,
which I put in his mouth
like a priest offering the host.
I can’t bear that trusting face!
He asks for bread, expects
bread, and I in my power
might have given him a stone.