The Farmers Market Day: People

There was such a beautiful mix of people. The serious culinary shopper -- they are the wholesale purchasers who can buy before 8:30. Spotting the perfect onion.

A farmer from a family of farmers.

The chanteuse singing in lovely French with her somewhat illusive guitar.

I so love being in the midst of the crowd as well as I do stopping to notice the details swimming around me.

And you?

The Farmers Market Day: Flowers

Yesterday I made a wonderful trip to the Santa Monica Farmer's Market. I promise to tell the whole story, right down to the grilled purple scallions we had for dinner.

But for now, for you, a few flowers:

It was almost impossible to walk away from the vibrant fragrance, life and color at just these stands.
Do you have a favorite?

The Intruder

This morning, I had my first cup of coffee in my garden chair as I read to the middle of MEMORIES OF RUNNING, by Bruce McLarty. I was up, oh so very early, and brewed the cup and took to the seat at first light. I traveled with Smithy to New York and listened to the old artist lady describing Art and Light and repeating, "That's Omega there. That's God's work," as she wandered off. I was engrossed in good writing, the good use of good words, and each time I'd reach for a big swig, I'd notice pieces of lovely in my garden.

The easing of the paint along the arm of my chair.

My pal's resting position.

The slight turning of the rose petal.

 The shifting light from the candle in the blue-gray of morning.








And then: the intruder.

The sun.

I don't think I've ever been unhappy with the sun peeking over the rooftop. But there it was with all it's light and warmth, beckoning for the day to start in earnest. But it had started, in the perfect way, with the chair and the book and the dog and the coffee and the time. There it was. Time.

I recognize I'm pushed to consider how I will spend my time this day. It look's like its time to fill my list with things (like working) that must be done. But this morning, in the early moments, I felt the fullness of what my soul desires: transporting words, the stillness of time, the coolness of morning, the beauty of Creation right in my yard, the work of a little black spider at his web within arms length and, without working to connect to God in scripture or text, just being in the midst of all He's granted, I am filled.

I'm even accepting the trickling light the intruder supplies as it dancing across my table.

Morning is changeable, I realize. The cool, the warmth, now the breeze. The waking birds are coming to peruse and a barking dog around the block is joining.

It must be time for a second cup.

The Ceiling of Complexity

I'm learning a little about this concept - the Ceiling of Complexity. From what I've read, it has to do with the number of things we have on our plate and the way they match up with our strengths. When we hit the ceiling, it's often related to a) too much and b) a weakness. In business, we're best working in our strengths and delegating the weaknesses.
At home, if you're the wife or mother, you just keep folding laundry and reorganizing the _______ (insert your favorite, pantry? refrig? sock drawer? car, where your children leave their socks?)
So, my regretful frustration (and attendant crabbiness) is due to the ceiling. I need to hire an underling to clean up after my kitchen extravaganzas and to pick up and to make coffee when I just need to work in my strengths: writing, painting, blogging, decorating the mantle, gardening. Ah ha!
There's something here, I don't know quite what yet, but it begins with addressing what I've put on my plate.
Today it includes a little garage clean out.

How's your ceiling?