Un-Oaked Pinot night

It's Thursday. The day the lady of the house over serves herself and waxes ridiculous. It was suggested by a Dear Friend that Thursday's be the day I write. I made the mistake of saying I had nothing to say. Dear Friend knows my dirty secret of Pinot Grigio Thursday ~ the reason he knows this is that he opens shameful emails from me on Friday mornings. I am sure as I am laying with a pillow over my face, detesting my 1am conduct, he is several hundred miles away simply shaking his head and grateful that he got out when he did. But being a true friend, he hasn't kicked me to the curb yet. I should also mention that my Dear Friend posts photographs of his travels and other people's prose on his blog. I think I would suggest that he write as well. Now that the self loathing and jabbing is over, fortification is needed in the form of nicotine, a full glass and my "Mom's goodies" mix on the iPod the Minion graciously tossed my way (literally) after I dropped $120 on a new one for his 16th birthday. {{{{several minutes pass, many of them with me trying to work the iPod}}}

So, I have music and wine. I also have crazy peas and kale. I have a new porch with pots of basil and parsley and leggy pansies . Dragonflies swooping around the oh so pregnant hydrangea. The whiskey barrel of daisies on the stone wall that saved the house from Irene. Marigolds, Lobelia,  Zebra grass, and black-eyed Susan's growing in a flower bed I made from the shovels of silt and dirt from the post-hurricane cellar clean up. I cut the flowers for the kitchen table and feel such relief that I can bring something beautiful into the house that grew from sorrow. Endless tears and anger when trudging up and out with those shovels of dirt. I have bunnies eating the lawn clover then hopping down and chasing each other in the pasture ravine. And I have a soak-hole in the brook that almost killed me. Stones moved around, a seat made, driftwood found and left ~ the sun hits it at 2pm ~ and it is a peace offering to sit in her and hear her apologize while my skin cools.

“The principal difference between an adventurer and a suicide is that the adventurer leaves himself a margin of escape (the narrower the margin the greater the adventure), a margin whose width and length may be determined by unknown factors but whose navigation is determined by the measure of the adventurer's nerve and wits. It is exhilarating to live by one's nerves or toward the summit of one's wits.”