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windmill

I love these grey days, and the threat of rain, and I love the rain. The heavens are raining down now, pounding loudly on the roof. It drizzled, it stopped, then it decided to just come down. The rose bush outside the window is not so much in bloom as decked out in glory. It is so covered in orange-white-pink blossoms that I’ve been totally distracted by it all day. It’s just totally over the top. Beside my laptop is the busy clutter of picture books, crayons, glue, binders, craft sheets and a dish scrubber. The broken old fence with the neighbours was up in the morning, then the workers came and ripped it down, exposing the not-quite-ripe-yet fruit on the marionberry tree. And then they put the new fence up, working through the downpour. The berries are hidden once again. There is a squirrel with a splendidly bushy tail patrolling the electrical lines. I wonder if it is interested in the berries. There is a little plastic windmill with six colourful teardrop shaped “petals”, right by the fence. Sometimes it spins like crazy, then the wind dies down and so does the spinning.

I sometimes wonder where peace is found, whether there is a time and place where one can find it consistently. I’m not quite sure yet, but this sunroom I’m sitting in right now is the first place I would start looking.

rosebush

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