The grey skies have bled into the yellow paddocks enough to finally make them green again. The animals look less desperate, the prospects for feed less dire, although the little sun we have left leaves much to be desired, when it comes to real growth. Seasons play out in days, then weeks, and you do what you can with the time and toil you have, to see what it may yield.
Creatively, there are seasons of abundance, prolificacy, wonder. And of course, they’re balanced by the dryer times. I read of Murakami, of routine, relentlessness. I value it, from afar, but am struck down day after day by the domestic and rudimentary demands of us mere mortals. I could be better, I know, but I realise it takes days, weeks, seasons of the tender labour of sowing, tending, before finally reaping.
As I write, a child wakes for the third time tonight, and stumbles out weeping to find someone to reset his blanket. I take leave from my leave, and set things right before I return to this. Clearing the debris, the detritus, that waters may flow again.