Inside + Outside

 

I was standing in the kitchen last night, barefoot and up to my elbows in water just a bit too warm.

And dirty dishes. Always, there are dirty dishes.

There I stood, scrubbing and washing and rinsing and only half-thinking.

 

When outside the small world of our home, I'm timid to take my camera out of my bag. I'm no real photographer. Neither myself nor my Canon Powershot sx10 have the ability to take the kind of photos that I most admire. To capture the best kind of shadows. But I wonder if, in time, when the world looks so changed from the way it is now, that these swiftly snapped pieces of every-day life might, somehow, be worth reflecting on. 

 

And so, standing at the sink, I snapped pictures of rosemary growing on the windowsill, and caught sight of my own reflection in the opalescent light of smudged glass.  

 

I think I could manage to live alone in an apartment in the city, surrounded by the hum of other lives. But I don't care for living in a house alone, even if only for a handful of days. You must forgive me these sentiments; since we've been married, he and I have not spent more than a day or two apart, and there is too much space in this house for one person.  

 

On Saturday, before he left, he and I spent all day in the dirt. We didn't mean to tackle quite so much. But once the one bush was pulled out, the other had to go as well, and while we were at it, that tree may as well be trimmed and those weeds bagged.

 

The Japanese maple tree in the corner of the yard has burst forth, full-colour, and it is now my favourite. The neighborhood cherry blossoms are beautiful as well, and I clipped a few branches from an obliging tree and tucked the silky stems into glasses of water on the table. 

 

Both pink and dirt have made their way inside, and I can't say I mind at all.