Summer feels like it’s nearly over now.
I suppose I could look at a calendar and come to that conclusion come September, but I prefer to feel my way into autumn. I don’t like math. I was working on the roof of my shed, tromping through the leaves of the maple tree as I went back and forth for more material, and despite the opressive heat, it felt like Fall. Something about the smell of crushed up leaves is undeniable.
This summer hasn’t been nice enough to be outside as much as I’d like, and it hasn’t been gloomy enough for inside to feel as rewarding as it does in the wintertime.
I have no idea what this Fall and Winter will be like. Well, that’s not entirely true; I can speculate, I can muse, I can fantasize. I think it’ll be nice. I’ve been monomaniacal about this shed, and it’s almost done, it’ll definitely be finished by the time there’s snow on the ground and while there’s no shortage of projects, even in the wintertime, I expect things to calm a bit. Which is ironic, considering the looming due date.
The obsession with framing raising children as a monumental sacrifice and general drag is something I have not only disliked, but actively hated from the moment I began recieving advice. I don’t think it will be easy, but neither is lifting rocks, or woodworking, or poetry, or sewing, or building a relationship, or anything else I find value in.
I doubt it’s an art that can find as much flow as timber framing, or as much monomaniacal obsession, but having this new human around’s going to be quite an adventure, and really, I can’t wait. I can’t wait because it isn’t a project. Raising a child isn’t like building a table or a shed, or making a painting or writing a poem or naming a business or even running a business.
I suppose I could look at a calendar and come to that conclusion come September, but I prefer to feel my way into autumn. I don’t like math. I was working on the roof of my shed, tromping through the leaves of the maple tree as I went back and forth for more material, and despite the opressive heat, it felt like Fall. Something about the smell of crushed up leaves is undeniable.
This summer hasn’t been nice enough to be outside as much as I’d like, and it hasn’t been gloomy enough for inside to feel as rewarding as it does in the wintertime.
I have no idea what this Fall and Winter will be like. Well, that’s not entirely true; I can speculate, I can muse, I can fantasize. I think it’ll be nice. I’ve been monomaniacal about this shed, and it’s almost done, it’ll definitely be finished by the time there’s snow on the ground and while there’s no shortage of projects, even in the wintertime, I expect things to calm a bit. Which is ironic, considering the looming due date.
The obsession with framing raising children as a monumental sacrifice and general drag is something I have not only disliked, but actively hated from the moment I began recieving advice. I don’t think it will be easy, but neither is lifting rocks, or woodworking, or poetry, or sewing, or building a relationship, or anything else I find value in.
I doubt it’s an art that can find as much flow as timber framing, or as much monomaniacal obsession, but having this new human around’s going to be quite an adventure, and really, I can’t wait. I can’t wait because it isn’t a project. Raising a child isn’t like building a table or a shed, or making a painting or writing a poem or naming a business or even running a business.