Short on Tomorrows

Running out of tomorrows to write about tomorrow. There are only two days left in August and National Blog Posting Month.

That's assuming I'll still be around to write them - a reasonable assumption. But that little TIA (transient ischemic attack -- mini-stroke) I had a while back made it clear that getting from my morning coffee safely to dinner is never a given.

And that is just so unsatisfactory -- the nagging possibility of being cut down mid stride with an inbox full of unfinished business. But it has me thinking: Which items in my inbox should I dig out and try to finish first before the lights go out?

More on that tomorrow...

Tomorrow -- I Promise

It's a blessing that Beau doesn't know about tomorrow. I would be ashamed if he had a count of all the promises for a walk tomorrow that never materialized. He simply wakes up every day open to the possibility of a walk, a ride, whatever comes his way.

I'm not any better at keeping promises I make to myself -- Tomorrow I will: eat more vegetables, clean out that closet, sew on that button, make time for yoga, write that article, be kinder, be on time, be a better version of me, scan photos, write thank you notes...I could fill pages with this. Maybe you could too.

We promise. We plan, knowing that the tomorrow we see shrouded in mist before us could knock us for a loop when it rises up, urgent and demanding under our feet. But you and I, we humans, are a relentlessly hopeful species.

And so, tonight I promise myself that I will begin writing my post earlier in the day tomorrow. I want to give you my best writing instead of what my sleepy, foggy brain can produce at the very end of my day. Wishing you the best, whatever your plans and promises for tomorrow.

Wilted Roses & Hungry Birds

The roses by the front door need the wilted blooms removed to make way for vibrant red buds. The zinnias would benefit from the same. Heavy hyacinth vines are climbing over the turk caps, which are holding their own against the invasion. But the cotton lavender is slowly being overwhelmed by the turk caps. It should have been transplanted way before now.

The bird feeder is empty. It hasn't fed a bird in months. The hummingbirds stop by now and then for a meal where the two big "flowers" usually hang. Finding nothing, they move on to the turk caps, which provide, I am sure, healthier fare. The only good I've done the birds this summer is to keep the bird bath under the pecan tree filled. This afternoon there was a whole lot of scuffling going on as starlings vied for a place in the water.

Most summers when I get home from work I go directly to tending garden and lawn. But not this year. Why? I could say my shoulder problems have held me back. That would sound good and you might believe it, but the shoulder's not at fault. I'm blaming the computer. Yes, yes, I owe you email - so what the heck, you want to know, am I doing on the computer?

Well, I'm gonna tell you - and I hope you see the irony in it. With a lowered voice and a sideways glance: I'm farming. Hey! I've got a big spread now with acres of crops to tend. And when I'm not working my farm, I'm helping my neighbors, or picking up work in the marketplace. Sorry, but I can't hang out here with you any longer. I've reached level 27 and can put a river through my place. I need to get to it. The roses? I'll clip them tomorrow.

What's a tomorrow?

I can't talk to Beau about tomorrow or even about five minutes from now. He seems to anticipate the treat he gets before I leave for work each morning. But I think he reads the signs that tell him, I'm about to go. Truth is, he hasn't a clue how this time thing works. Dogs are pretty much stuck in the now.

And so are cats. Years ago when my hair was still brown, I had two cats, Shannon - the white one - and Elan. You see how keen they are to take over a lap. These pictures are several years apart and I can tell you, there were many times a cat, especially Shannon, jumped into my lap of a cold morning, curled into a ball, purring loud and shamelessly. What she didn't know was that I was just five minutes away from coming up out of that chair. I envied that - her ability to enjoy the perfection of the moment - to be so totally present that her contentment was deep and absolute. I'm here. I'm warm. Life is good.

We people, on the other hand, have that annoying frontal lobe -- which can easily frazzle a good cat nap: Darn, not much time - it's 8:35. She was supposed to be out of this chair by 8:30. But yesterday she sat 'til 8:45. Ten minutes I've got...maybe. Quick! Fall asleep. Crap! Is she getting up? No, just shifting to reach coffee. OK, five minutes, surely I've got five minutes more.

Admittedly, my frontal lobe has served me well - for the most part. I don't chase cars or dash out in front of them. I can't recall ever climbing a tree I couldn't get down from, although I find myself occasionally dangerously out on a limb. But what a gift it would be to enjoy a shoulder rub without fretting that it's going to end too soon.