“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”
Good morning from my cosy little office.
Coffee poured; a pint of water. And ready for the unfolding day.
Here we are again: Monday — as if, right now, it's different to any other day.
Is it me but I seem to be doing far less than before the pandemic? What do I mean? Well, I've got less to pull my attention away from what I'm doing.
Sunday (yesterday) is a good example:
a) I dug the garden, ready for planting. I don't normally spend much time in the garden because it's my wife's domain; I like the garden but I'm better equipped with a pair of secateurs and a shovel than I am considering the nuances of a planting regime.
b) I finished reading Where The Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens. I must have read well over 150 pages. I finished the book. I loved it.
c) I walked the dog, once in the morning and once in the evening. I know I'm not supposed to go outside more than once, but if I didn't take Alfie out for a proper walk — i.e. for more than an hour — he'd only get a cursory walk around our house. (I saw no people on my morning walk and at least 20 on the afternoon one.)
d) I cooked lunch — Meditteranean, vegan soup.
e) And I slept in the afternoon, no doubt as a consequence of my ridiculously early start.
(I feel blessed to be able to do all these things.)( Collapse )