My head gets a hall pass

The work week left me a wee bit rattled, so I gave my brain the weekend off. I gave myself permission to wander about the place aimlessly looking at pretty things.

These wildflowers blanket the Dreamfarm fields in an autumnal yellow wonderland and make me feel, well, dreamy. Somehow, cleansed and blameless and optimistic.  (But fatally so? taunts the wind...)

I weeded in the garden and cooked some of my bounty.  This handsome bell went into stir-fry greens (Dreamfarm chards and mustards) along with garlic and onion (alas, store-bought), which was stuffed into masa crepes with jack cheese that melted all gooey. Served with black beans and rice mixed with banana and sage. A glass of pinot grigio. Oh, yes -- you're right -- it was divine.

I watered the garden and stared at the water droplets dazzle in the sun, showing off what a magic elixir it is.  My cabbage look pregnant, with their babes tucked secretly into the folds of their innermost leaves.

 I stared at the grass waving gently against a blue blue sky.

I  contemplated how the shiny bronze blades of grass did not have to do so much to dazzle against the blue blue sky. They just were. They just woke up each morning and said, Here we are you blue blue sky. Don't we look so very fine with you at our back? and perhaps they also say, Yes, blue sky, we know you bring out our shine, but perhaps we bring out your blueness as well? 

And I am pretty sure shiny bronze blades of grass are not required, as part of their job, to say when the dreary sky comes and makes them drab and slack, that it's dreary sky's fault because he just isn't able to get his act together.  And yet, and yet....sometimes when my head has not been given a hall pass, sometimes when instead it must be engaged and worthy of a paycheck, it must mention such things. It really hates to do that. Even when it does so in the fairest of ways possible.

For when I was a child, there was a lot of emphasis on where my nose was supposed to be.  To the grindstone. In front of my face. Not in the air. And certainly not in someone else's business.  If someone else was not doing his job, what interest was it of mine, I was asked, rather pointedly.  None of course.

Until, many years later, darn the luck, it is part of my job. And still, it feels like tattling. I must then somehow undo the upset.  I slipped the skin off boiled chickpeas for an entire hour, while singing as many songs as I could think of. Most in a minor key.

There is no picture of this, nor would you want there to be.

(Tomorrow's another Monday; let's hope it's a blue-sky and grass-waving week.)