Imbolc Waning Wild Moon
On these days I often think of Fantasy Island, when Tatto would say, The plane! The plane! I want to run outside in the street and yell, The sun! The sun! After a long run of dreary weather the sight of the sun climbing higher and higher in the sky bucks us up and makes us eager for the end of winter. By now we have earned our spring and the joys of the cold and snow have begun to fade when weighed against the possibility of flowers and vegetables and outdoor walks.
Most of us do not come to this place without some regret and I’m among them, a part of me yearning for the depths of winter with its ascetic cold and its spare landscape, but the gardener in me has begun to awaken, thinking of which vegetable to put in which plot, how much, what new flowers might look good.
Another 1,300 words in before Kate and I began to check our work chapter 6 of Wheelock. She’s improving fast, as I knew she would. Working together does make a difference, a major positive difference. And just think how surprised the natives will be when we start using our newly acquired Latin on them.
What’s that? All dead? Really? Whoa, that’s a pity, all this language and no place to speak it.
Sierra Club legcom tonight. 7:00 pm sharp.