The Runcible Existentialist

Apologies in advance for the horrible pun; I hate sports, but the sentiment seemed apropos.

This is a weird time of year.  Everything should be coming back to life, but the live oak is shedding all its dead leaves in copious waves of falling brown sheets.  It’s a losing battle.  Even the gnome is resigned.

I worked in the yard today, in the rain.  It was all by rote – muscle memory.  I had to get the sprinkler heads flagged before the aerator comes.  There is no longer any joy, though; it’s just the same.  But in the yard, as with life these days, there are the occasional bright spots – a newness I’ve been looking for.  So like the rose and the iris in the garden, I cherish the newly discovered and shared Syrah; the vibrant conversation; and the best sauerkraut and sausage I’ve ever had.