This afternoon sitting in the forest above my house in the warm sun. Insects are everywhere, flies landing on me to say hello, the moss and rocks on the cliff warm and dry.
I am sitting with a mug of tea made from the first tender leaves of the season’s lemon balm. Listening to silence punctuated by a squirrel chattering in a rhythmic patterns of sevens “cheap a cheap cheap, cheap a cheap”. He is consistent enough that I can drum softly on the moss beside me in time with his voice and sing a little song about belonging. Making music with the context.
There are many seeds I have planted this winter and I feel a sense of anticipation that some will come up. I also wonder what will never come up and what will grow that I never planted.
I wonder dear few readers, if there is something between you and I that we have spoken of that wants to be born? Are you reading this and thinking about work and play we could do together? Is there a call, however faint, that wants to be voiced?