I think we're all prepared for tomorrow's gardening extravaganza. The rototiller and various tools have been obtained. Due to the rain, we won't pick up the compost until tomorrow morning.

Sean promises this is going to be much easier than I think it's going to be. That's good, because I'm thoroughly dreading it.

Kat's mother confirms that she's going to try to get me some of Kat's grandfather's camellias from down in New Orleans. I love this—the thought of having a garden comprised of pieces that other people have loved and cared for makes me very happy indeed.

My first iris is blooming, close to the door. Dark purple and light purple; once my camera returns with Heather from D.C. I'll have to take pictures. Heather has my point-and-shoot while she's out in D.C., but, come to think of it, this kind of work would do better if I used my manual-everything Pentax anyhow.

While I'm out getting the compost tomorrow morning I'll have to remember to get some film for the camera. The carnage in the flowerbeds currently has to be seen to be believed, and it's going to get even better tomorrow.

Jeff called; he is safely cocooned in his hotel room at Clemson, working on his speech. He presents his paper tomorrow afternoon. I will think about him in between swearing at the holly bushes as we rip them out.

I'm thinking that while we have the rototiller we might as well lay out beds at the back of the house. It certainly couldn't hurt, and I've got those impatiens seeds that Sean gave me a few months ago. However, I don't want to go ripping up soil in the back yard until Jeff's here. He knows where pipes and such are, and I don't.

Sigh. Not much introspection here, is there? I know, I know—look past the mundane in life to see the patterns, the overarching meaning, the cues that will allow me to attach this day to the stream of others that have come before it.

On some days, it is incredibly easy; events present themselves ready-formed into patterns of meaning. The days like today—rest and preparation in advance for tomorrow's work—don't bear up well under rhapsodization. They simply were, and were done.

But, in the meantime…while I was writing this, I was listening to a copy of a song I got since I'm one of the wacky folks subscribed to Jonatha Brooke's mailing list. It's one I sincerely regret didn't make the album; it's excellent. Since my mind unconsciously started streaming the lyrics to my typing fingertips while I was writing this post, I decided to transcribe the song and include it in its entirety:

[what we are]

Can you love with such misgiving
this crooked little heart I've got for you
Disdain in your demeanour—
Can you love through irony, fear, and truth:

The fear to repeat another's life;
The irony of dying much the same way;
Expert at nothing, master of a mission:
the day-to-day

I have to laugh with each distraction;
My heart is rearranging time,
There's order in my mother's house,
but there is such disarray in mine…

This is God's own creation,
and it is such a familiar scene:
the endless conversation
of missing you
of things not been

what they say
what we are, what we were
never be the same
[my world…]
what we are, and what we were
[to be….]
never be the same
[seen…]
what we are, and what we were
never be the same
[my world…]
what we are, and what we were
[to be…]
never be the same
[seen…]

So I will love without misgiving;
this crooked little heart I give to you—
'cause there's order in the meaning
of all that's innocent but true…

This is God's own creation
and it could be such a perfect scene
here the culmination—
of loving you—
and things that are—
what they seem

-chorus-

Tenzing has issued a demand for immediate cuddling. Thus I go now.