When my husband and I traveled to Miami Beach this summer, we took a trip into the city to find the Barnacle State Park, a tiny tropical oasis in Coconut Grove, where Ralph Middleton Munroe, a pioneer and one of Miami’s earliest settlers, built a house on Biscayne Bay. It’s a lovely site.
Our son and I took a walk Sunday morning in downtown Winston Salem, North Carolina. We stumbled across an outdoor amphitheater, where ruffians slept off their hangovers on the stepped seating in the sun.
Nearby was a brick building that our son and I explored the exterior of. I loved the creative way the windows were protected from mischief, with sculpture instead of bars.
I know what I’ll be doing every day for the rest of the summer.
We bought a house. And we’re changing everything about it. We ripped out carpets to install wood flooring upstairs, and to paint the concrete in the basement downstairs.
And for the first time ever, I will have my own room to work from. My own office.
I’ve already removed all the hardware and taped off so I can paint. I can’t wait.
Back in January, I started bringing my phone on my running route so that I could entertain myself while I ran. I leaned on my phone’s camera to find novel ways to look at the same scenery I saw every single time I set my timer and vowed to run for 30 minutes.
Despite passing this stump dozens of times, even when the trees had no leaves and it must have been exposed, I never noticed it. I only saw it this past weekend, when I slowed down. When I didn’t set a timer. When I decided to walk instead of run.
For the Daily Post Photo Challenge: On the Way.
It is Saturday and the trees are encased in ice. We slept with our bedroom window open, and in the deep stillness of night, I was startled awake by the sound of a loud crash. I thought it was drunk students knocking over garbage cans, and then we heard soft voices in the parking lot. A tree limb, heavy with ice, had fallen onto a car.
My legs are crossed at the cafe table by the kitchen window. Morning light shines in. This is my favorite place to sit. On the smooth round table are my earthenware coffee mug, a cup of ice water, my prompt box, an orchid, and a copy of A Land Remembered — my current Florida read. The fridge hums. The half-loaded dishwasher stands open. I hear my husband shuffle paper in the living room. Tear a check out of a checkbook. Occasionally, he clears his throat. A kettle of pinto beans clinks and groans on the stove. The glass lid beads with steam.
I’ve got the kitchen window cracked. It is inches from my body, and I feel icy January air on my hip. The air smells clean and cold and damp. A heavy drop of water splats on the window stool. Further away I hear gentle dripping on wet soil, on cement, on pavement. The ice in the trees crackles softly, and branches sway slowly under a shimmering weight. Liquid pools in the blacktop parking lot and on our cement stoop. The ground is too warm to freeze liquid into solid, but the air is not. A stirring of wind knocks crystal shards from high branches; ice clatters against our windows. I see tiny snow flakes fall among raindrops. The weather is raw today.
I think I’ll go outside.
Butterfly Mind 