The garden in front of the porch where I sit is woefully neglected. The pink petals of echinacea, where an orange butterfly lands, are the only bright spots amid a sprawl of foliage from spring blooms gone by. In mid July, I’m reminded of the need to think of this month during planting season. My blog has been neglected, too, which makes me think of the wisdom of some friends who thought ahead to declare summer blog breaks. But I’ve been writing, mostly in the guise of pulling together my book about writing and trying not to get intimidated by the self publishing process as I stare at fractions and equations to contend with as I decide on page sizes and margins and a host of things that can go wrong. But there will be a book, which I try to keep in mind.
The details of bookmaking are like getting swept up in conversations about roofs, wells, furnaces, deeds and such, as Peter and I are in the process of buying a second home in southern Maine. There’s a lot of detail work, so that sometimes I forget the end idea is to have a house where we can look out at the ocean.
Two orange butterflies just danced over the tangle of iris and star-flower stalks. I’ve got my daughter and an extra dog in the house for the evening. The cat has tucked himself up against my computer, lying still in the heat. Life at its best is still here, going on amidst the plans. Every day I’m trying to add a little poetry to my time spent with rulers, reports, and how-to guides. And driving by orange day lilies. We have the moment and we have plans. The butterflies twist around each other, flying higher.