#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Budding signs of spring on the river’s edge
Day begins before sunrise, quiet house, I’m the first one awake. I get coffee for me and Frank to have in our bedroom. Time to talk about the previous day when we had hardly had a chance. Soon, my daughter, with her coffee, join us. The waking up talks, talking over the previous day, sharing news, offering and receiving support and insights, and feedback. All until we hear the sound of the youngest voice through the wall in the room next door. The busy day begins. I get out early, me and Charlie. It’s wet, but not raining, and warm enough to not be unpleasant. I am happy, finding pictures. A bright red tiny shoot like a hot spear at the edge of the Charles. Then, the faint glow of graffiti reflected in the Charles under the trestle bridge, the splash of bright color. Will I have a chance to swim today as well? I am at peace with whether I will or not; the pool has been closed. I have two clients. My second one is on the phone, and the reception is terrible in my office, so I go outside and stroll our session into my garden, sit on the bench, and the bluebird is back! I’m so happy about the bluebird taking up residence again, knowing I will see her all spring and summer in this special place. I feel as if I hear my client quite effectively, support her especially well while out in the garden. My third client doesn’t show, and yes, the pool is open, so I don’t ask myself if I want to go, because I’m chilled; my feet are wet from the grass and the garden, but I just drive to the pool and swim my half hour and I’m just very glad to be there, in the rhythm, heart strong. In the late afternoon I make my eggplant, two casseroles. One for the house, one for the potluck with friends. A warm and intimate evening with dear ones. I am aware, at the table, with the laughter and teasing and tenderness and warmth of how grateful I am to have these special relationships in my life.
What is there to say about the people of Ukraine, the horrors of war, the unspeakable crimes being committed? The news is in our bodies, our blood streams, our brains. Spirits.
Charles River, Under the Trestle Bridge