I haven’t been down to the little stream for a few weeks. I did travel down sometime in April. At that point the weather was drier than is typical. Since then it’s been rainier than is normal, which will mean wet and muddy walking and a muddy stream. I don’t mind getting muddy myself, and I sure don’t mind getting the kids muddy, but if the stream is too muddy, the kids won’t be able to see crayfish or the other stream denizens. So I hope the mud in the stream will be mostly clear by then.
``````I’ve been rereading H.D. Thoreau’s journals, my favorite of his writings. This time I’m reading a journal entry per day, matching his days with the same day here on Roundtop. Today, he’s complaining about haze and humidity at his place and notes that “The season of hope and promise is past.” Even further north, where he lived, spring has passed and is replaced with summer. In spring, all things seem possible again. In summer reality sets in or at least returns after a time of spring ebullience. That’s how it seems to me right now.
The projects that suddenly seemed do-able again after winter don’t get done on their own. In my case, most of them are still awaiting some effort on my part. I always run out of time or energy, and another weekend goes by with little improvement. Such is life, I guess. Even on the longest days of the year, there isn’t enough time to get everything done I’d like to get done. Chores and errands still need done. My day’s worth of energy only lasts so long. Time is a vicious mistress and waits for no one.