I’ve just come inside after eating my lunch out in our backyard. We’re yet to acquire outdoor furniture, but sitting on the grass, I could look up at the clearest blue sky, see the fence line, and the trees beyond it as my horizon. The warm breeze and scent of food caused flies and bugs a like to converge. As they hit my arms and crawled along my legs, it reminded me of teaching kindergarten children. At story time they sit at my feet, playing with my shoes, and wanting to borrow my jewelry. They put up their hands to ask questions or tell a tales of yesterday’s adventures. They long to be heard, to make noise and explore their world.
I think that even the flies in the country move at a slower pace. When one sneaks through an open door between our going outs and coming ins, I often leave it to buzz and crawl along the walls. Its slower pace and heavy buzz assures me that it could be dead with one spray or quick swat with a book. But its tendency to search, not bother, prompts me to adjust to the sound and the presence of another in the house. I know that tomorrow I will simply vacuum its dried carcass off the windowsill, beneath the glass window of what it thought was its opportunity at freedom. Dumb fly.
Yesterday I built a garden box for my herbs and some new beetroots. Not being a very seasoned builder, the task was quite rewarding, taking little time and even lesson money. As I ate my lunch I sat urging my little plants to grow, longing them to stay alive and bring us our first harvest of home grown veggies.