I always say that I discovered the Beatles in middle school, but that's a little inaccurate. Their music was always there, as long as I was alive, on the periphery of my consciousness. But somewhere in my tween years, I started really paying attention to it. I smothered myself in Beatles music, absorbing it with the fervency of a true believer. It moved me like nothing I had known in my short life before then. Before eighth grade was over, it was apparent to me that my favorite Beatle was John Lennon. I adored his solo music every bit as much as I had the Beatles songs. The Double Fantasy album was one of my birthday presents the year it came out, and I played it over and over (yes, usually skipping a lot of the Yoko songs). The opening chords of Starting Over still transport me to those feelings of childhood joy, and I can swear I'm back in my old bedroom, listening to the vinyl record on my little stereo we got from JC Penney. When I heard the news he died, I spent hours in that spot, listening to that album, sobbing full-throated like I had lost a member of my immediate family. Today would have been his 73rd birthday, so his songs have been getting extra airplay today, and my Facebook feed has been full of photographs of him. I have enjoyed a day to think back on my youthful obsession.
I joined a committee today, to work on a charity project with my group. It feels good to be involved again. It also feels good not to be the top dog. I felt so uncomfortable last year, I am looking forward to being one of the Indians, not one of the chiefs. Having a summer off to regain my balance, and having this outlet to organize my thoughts, has made a world of difference. I'm rested and ready to get involved again. I picked up the lead on another project (this one artistic and creative), and volunteered several times to work shifts for our December fundraiser. It's time to get busy again.
I have been brutally honest about my failing in the garden. I allowed heat, humidity, mosquitoes, and spiders to chase me away. I stopped mowing, weeding, and even watering. Flowers are dead or dying, and my shame is visible to anyone who looks. It got so bad that I have been able to walk right past the racks of mums at the big box stores, without even glancing to one side. This is horrifying, actually. One of my favorite things, year after year, is when the mums show up in front of stores. And this year I want nothing to do with them. I know I have no intention of planting them or watering them, so I am saving my money and leaving them to someone else. Today was the first time I have walked in the back side of the park in weeks. I tried to tell myself that it's okay that some of the bushes and trees are looking scraggly. It's mid October, past the height of the season. I'm fooling myself, though. The roses looked so much better last October and the one before it. The leaves look ravaged by insects and brown spots. I'm trying to get myself out there again. I did a perimeter walk to open up about how it looks. It wasn't all bad--I do have survivors. Last year's poinsettia is still hanging in. The weeping willow in the unmowable swamp has a nice spread to its canopy, and it danced in the wind for me while I took its picture. (It's going to be great next year when it's a little bigger.) And of course, I was covered in mosquito bites within minutes. I am waiting for the first frost to empty my garden of all those bugs. Unfortunately, it will also empty it of the last of the flowers.
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