After five weeks of bronchitis, or six--I lost count after a while, and nine days of diarrhea, a trip to the emergency room, a fistful of atomic antibiotics, and a fair amount of bedrest, I am tired and weak. And behind. But that's enough complaining. I am back, and that's good enough for me.
I have this notion of morning therapy. For as long as I can remember, I have made sure that I take the time to engage in something just for me, before I begin the workday. (Or school day, if you want to go back that far. As it's my birthday very soon, I have no desire to, but go ahead.)
My morning ritual, to which I am very happy to return in better health, is pretty simple. Get up at least a half-hour before anyone else in the house. Void the bladder, wash the face, check the wrinkles. Stagger to kitchen, drink water, make coffee (a ritual of its own), and head outside. In the limitless expanse of our backyard, I do things like sweeping the patio, checking the pool and gathering dogtoys.
Mostly, however, I potter around with my Coffee-From-Hell mug, checking out the plant life and watering as needed. I'm not a true gardener, but my rural Southern roots are surprising sometimes. I like to play in the earth. Having said that, I am mindful of the fact that we live in the desert and limit my play to that with drought-tolerant plants, or reserving those that need a bit more water either to pots or very small spaces. The trees were already here, and I do what I need to to keep them healthy on as little water as possible.
More babies on the way, of many kinds. (The previous tenants left a small greenhouse behind. They're nice guys. I have met them before and am pretty sure they will be happy that it's getting some use until they come to collect it.)
In other news, I am singing a bit this weekend. If you're local and up for some interesting choral music, jump here for more details.