The fields beyond our house, with the Patuxent River in the background.
A chilly morning, a cup of tea: it sort of begs for writing, especially as my child seems to be sleeping in. So here I'll do it.
We had a terrific summer storm last night-- heavy rains, thunder, lightning-- the works. My boy stood on the front porch with me and kicked up his heels in it, running about and screaming with delight. Later on we drove down by the horses and he had a go at jumping in some of the most brilliant puddles we've seen here yet. Up in the sky, clouds of all shapes and colors filled the many strata of the atmosphere, some seeming high and lumbering, others low and quick, flitting by in an after-rain race.
The whole while, I felt softer to this place. It is hard to be angry at a partner who looks so beautiful, who becomes so welcoming... And this morning, I recognize that it is difficult to see a place's truth through resentful eyes. I really think that's what it is: I resent having to be here, having this as our only option, having to love a place I never really cared to care about. Now...can I live with this and enjoy the puddles anyway?
in the morning
9 hours ago