As I type this the lawn mowers of the neighbourhood are a symphony of groaning engines, punctuated regularly by the sound of small twigs and stones split and crackle as they hit the blades. If I look up I can see dust rise in the wake of each yard’s master as they struggle to cut back their dominion, regulate nature, to a point that will be socially acceptable for Christmas guests.
Luckily, we have no such lawn to mow; that said, I will be spending a good part of this afternoon scrubbing toilets and performing other domestic necessities for my mother’s arrival tomorrow.
I think I need to take a leaf out of Keira’s book. Look, here she is in meditating pose.
I might need to do a bit of that, too, by week’s end.
We’ll see.
