We may have gone a little over board planting seeds the other day.
We stood over the kitchen sink, he and I, cupping handfuls of dirt into paper cups (because it didn't matter how many times we tried, but we just couldn't manage to successfully craft delicate newspaper cones like these. Sometimes, the simplest things escape me).
He wanted to sew even more. But ever the realist, I cautioned against it.
"We only have so much ground outside," I reminded him.
But I understood; there is something intoxicating about new growth. About seedlings.
I feel like I have something else to say. Something about love and family and complications and truths. But right now there's too much to sort through. We just need to breathe, in and out, and recover.
And, of course with the breathing will come thinking. And with that clarity. Also patience.
It will all come round in the end.