This is busy month around here because I am back to being a part-time single parent. My husband had to rush off to California with wine work to do before bud break, so I am back to holding down the fort by myself. In the meantime, I am sorting and planting seeds, fostering the kids, and planning a quick vacation to California for my Spring Break. I feel bad that our home will not be available for foster kids, but so far, all of them are actually happy that I will be getting out. Too bad they groan when I fill them in on my ulterior motive: San Francisco Flower & Garden Show.
|This is our four-year-old part-feral cat that is no longer as feral as she used to be. Monabelle was like a ghost, but now she is showing more interest in my activities than ever before. I just feel bad that she misses her buddy—my husband.|
Prolonged drawn out explanations for my as-of-yet absent summaries of Seattle talks will not appear here today. Instead, suffice it to say, I am waiting, I have been waiting, and I’ve waited. Currently I am going through the third diagnosis experience in my life and I’ve forgotten how much I don’t like waiting. This time it feels like a more serious problem so hence my Godot title. I try not to think over the meaning of life while I am knocked out by some kind of mysterious malady, but then plants just cannot keep my mind away from the worry swirling around inside of me—dancing around the drain without going away to wherever it should go.
Last night I was trying to read, which is really difficult to do if you have chronic illness and pain, and I found this funny quote by the author of the drama already discussed in this post, “What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.” Samuel Beckett was (and still is) my kind of guy.
With that in mind, I will head out for my biopsy today, planning in my mind to return home refreshed to bury my worries elsewhere on the property—