This morning, I’m inspired by Terje’s celebration of her 1000th blog post and her suggestion to try “just because” slices:
How about instead of deep thoughts and wise words, without looking for hidden meanings, we simply celebrate the slices of life as they are, the small and the big, the ordinary and the special, the light and the deep.
So, in the spirit of Terje, here are three mini slices.
I shouldn’t feel joyful over a heavy spring snow. It’s terrible for the trees. Not all of ours have leaves yet, but the ones that do hang perilously low and branches crack and break with the extra weight, damaging property and taking out power lines when they fall. It’s terrible for the ranchers. Already saturated ranch and farm land simply can’t absorb any more moisture, and cattle are in danger of drowning.
But I couldn’t help but do a happy leap when I peeked outside and saw the fattest snowflakes falling. I love a late spring snow.
It wasn’t so fun to be out in it this morning, poking and beating the trees and shrubs with a broom, knocking off the snow that had flattened the spirea and bent the budding lilacs to the ground. They sprang back into place, dumping heavy wet snow on my feet and head and shoulders. I came back inside soaked from head to toe but feeling like I’d acted in quite a loving way towards my trees and shrubs.
I would like be the kind of person who can cook without a recipe. We tend toward soups, stews, and grain bowls, which lend themselves better than most meals to rough formulas and whatever ingredients you happen to have on hand. But I still need a recipe to remember what vegetables I want to roast for a grain bowl or which spices go in the chili.
Last night, chilled from the weather and uninspired by the prospect of dinner, I decided to make vegetable soup. I chopped an onion and a few slices of prosciutto. While they were sauteing, I chopped carrots and celery. I found two slightly limp zucchini and a potato that was beginning to grow eyes. I added a little thyme, some frozen corn, cans of diced tomatoes and chickpeas, and a handful of barley. No recipe required.
Chipotle comes upstairs at night with the other cats for bedtime, but unlike them, he doesn’t get into bed with me. He disappears. I have long suspected he has some secret snuggly spot upstairs that no one–including his siblings–knows about. And he does.
There is a basketball shoe box on my son’s dresser. There are no shoes in it, only a few pairs of socks, unfolded and spread across the bottom, for reasons I can’t begin to guess. Last night, I watched Chipotle leap onto the dresser, lift the box lid with his head, crawl inside, and let the lid settle back into place. I tiptoed over and peeked inside. Already curled into a ball, he opened one eye to glare at me. I closed the lid and left him to it.
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