After a week of gray — holding our breath, waiting for sun and spring to resume their respective places in our lives — we can exhale. Today is a fine day in May.
March was amazing, April was fabulous, but May, thus far, has been a tease, and a grumpy one at that. Ill-tempered and low-temperatured, bleak, gray and damp.
Responsibility comes with beautiful Minnesota weather, and I already feel guilty for shirking mine. I hear the neighbors mowing their lawn, and I should be out there doing the same. Or I should be planting the tomatoes and basil and peppers and petunias and oddly named other little plants I bought last week. I should be pulling weeds, at the very least.
This is the story of my summers: Standing in the kitchen, looking out at the berm behind my house, considering what else I can plant there, noticing some stray dandelions and remembering there are plants to put into the ground. Then spending too much time ruminating on whether to spend the next three hours getting muddy and dirty and sweaty from Major Yard Work, or to just shove a few little plants into their new home in the backyard.
By then the sun has gone under a cloud, and I chastise myself for missing out on the sunny afternoon, the opportunity to spend time in my charming yard and the new lease on life I would be giving my seedlings. So I turn away, get involved in something like, oh, my blog …
The sun is back out. I need to get going.