Yesterday, from 7-noon, I wrote upon the stamped concrete patio of my favorite coffee shop.  The firepit no longer blazes there, but instead the sunshine provides the caloric effect.  I am equally warmed by the brushstrokes of my mind as I tap the keyboard each morning.  This endeavor is my symphony of Praise.

Afterwards I returned home to play defense to the hostile forest which is threatening full seizure of our yard.  It is as if the wilderness growth is a mob goaded by the urgency of a new season, dividing and conquering each quadrant of our plot.  I collect pieces of nature along the way; silent reminders I will place in and through our living areas - reminders of Artistry, Creation and Worship.

Reminding me of infant days in her cradle, Savannah swayed in her carabiner secured hammock, listening to the pines whisper and reading Phantom of the Opera.  As I passed to and fro, muddied and sweating from my linebacker stance in the weeds, she shared her untangling thoughts.  I listened, grunted and pondered cultivation.

Late afternoon gave way to a typical but short lived cool mountain thunderstorm.  The girls hid in the basement with their daddy, making him watch some Star Wars this or that with them.

I, stinky in ethnic tunic and rolled rockabilly hat with a side braid, took myself to Sonic for a large vanilla Coke with extra, extra ice.   Then swung by Natural Grocers for zucchini and yellow squash, an onion and dog food.   Everything else I needed for chicken parm, I thought, was waiting at home.

I returned to find a kitchen full of dishes and messes, and only one chicken breast.  Each an irritation.

Soon my kitchen was filled with people cleaning up what they had left behind, an appreciated gesture performed at an unappreciated time since I was in the midst of dinner preparations with the solitary chicken breast.  Its amazing what pounding and breading can produce!

Forfeiting my typical after dinner walk with Doug, I retreated to the shower and an hour with quiet Italian composers in the sanctuary of my bedroom.  Afterwards I pulled the lemon zest-almond flour shortbread roll from the freezer where I had deposited it earlier in the evening, cutting half inch slices for baking.  We put the kettle on and sat on the porch watching another shower of rain and enjoying the brisk air of night weaving its way through our giant trees.  Something about a tea and shortbread patio party at dusk is enchanting - especially if the dress code is pajamas.

Peyton scampered out to the porch, announced her intent to retrieve two cookies, and smiling brilliantly, ducked back inside.  I caught her sweet scent as she passed and I made note that I had not spent much time with her in conversation all day.

At 10pm Doug tapped the play arrow on the laptop and we began My Name Is Nobody, a western, while Rugby tried to make my pillow his bead.    I made it through 3/4 of the movie then drifted off to dream.  As he turned off the lights I asked if Beauregard was killed.  He laughed and said, no, they faked his death.  I muttered that was good and he kissed me.  The dog was banished to the sofa.

This morning as I prepare myself to write anew, this blurb my warm-up stretching, I am thankful for the Beauty, freedoms and relationship that surround me.  Truly, I am a rich woman.