As planned, I meet my friend for a long bike ride from Sherborn to Dover and back. We are following the course of the 15 mile mini-triathlon that’s held in our town each year–but won’t be, this year. Still, we want to do it ourselves. We know the route well. It’s overcast and cool, more like September, when the race is held, than August. The streets are quiet; more bikers and runners than cars. Of course, we are in conversation, and this requires riding beside each other when we can. Conversation deepens, and when we are on the long, winding silent street under the tree canopy that passes through the wetlands in Dover, we stop, briefly, for water and the view. It has been many months since we have spent time together alone. And, as mothers who have raised our children together, it’s a time for revisiting so many experiences and issues, with the perspective of age. We talk of our daughters, and ways we have learned to let go of issues we cannot control, and how that process has enriched us. When our ride is complete–this long ride that has felt short, I go for a swim at the dock, around the island. It’s cool, pleasantly so. And then I ride home, quite satisfied. It feels like fall. And the rain comes, late in the day, so welcome, such a refreshment. The brook will drink it up, and all the plants will be washed and relieved and revived, and the roots of the trees. And, I too, enjoy the light pelt of it, standing, in the early evening in the yard with my son and his girlfriend and puppy. We are physically distanced, but emotionally close. The grass grows wetter, the sky grows darker, the puppy grows more and more rough with Charlie, who barks him into submission. Today and tonight I work on a poem from the letters. It has been a couple of weeks since I’ve worked on this project, and it takes me awhile to be fluid with it. I am warming back up to it. I sent out my Aim for Astonishing weekly prompt today–an invitation to bring a photo and write with me on this Thursday night, August 20, 7-8 p.m. on Zoom. I hope you will think about joining me too. You can register here.

How to choose your photo for Thursday night:

The photo you bring to the workshop can be anything you feel you have literally or figuratively grown or "tended." A tree, a plant in your garden, a house plant, a friendship, a pet, a painting or art project, a graduate thesis, a needlepoint project, a patient, a student in your classroom, a fictional character in a story you're writing. . . the possibilities are endless. Think about what it means to tend or grow something, and then let your instincts lead you to a personal photo.

to tend
a. to apply oneself to the care of : watch over;
b: to have or take charge of as a caretaker or overseer - tend the sheep;
c: CULTIVATE, FOSTER: to manage the operations of : 
MIND tend the store, tend the fire