#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Painted Turtle laying eggs

Whatever peace I know rests in the natural world,

in feeling myself a part of it, even in a small way.

~ May Sarton

Charlie is not thrilled. A text comes from my friend, early, to paddle board on Farm Pond. “I’ll be there in four minutes,” I say. It’s a gloriously sunny morning on the pond. Summer is short, we seize the pond under a cloudless sky. Charlie’s walk, when I return, is shorter than usual. I have gardening I want to do and the storms will come later. I am mulching the flower garden and rounding up more rocks. I will not need to water. A beautiful hardwood has fallen into the river on our property; the river has been high for so long, it has been standing too long in water. Perhaps it won’t die. I realize later in the day that I had accidentally paused my blog and so last night’s blog was never delivered this morning. Frank and I are home together all day, in when it’s wet and thundery, out when it’s dry and breezy, doing gardening and yard chores; a perfect Sunday. Except someone needs our help, our compassion, our guidance, and we do that listening and sharing together; we’re a team. I am not religious. But there is a prayer I believe in more than any other and for thirty-five years it’s the prayer I try to practice, and some days must practice it more than others.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

Reinhold Niebuhr

In the late afternoon I walk across the field to the river and find a painted turtle laying her eggs in the moss. This is the field where the snapper’s eggs have been scavenged everywhere, so I will hope for the best. Today is a day like that: risk, possibility, hope.

Tonight I answer an e-mail from someone who will be attending my Play Lab at IWWG - she has questions about what she will work on, and answering her is warming me up to being there at Muhlenberg, working on plays every day for the week, shaping and guiding and helping writers tell their stories for the stage. Whatever has been eating my flowers of the field has stopped. No new damage. The coneflowers are blooming hot pink, and remain intact. My paddling friend texts her thanks to me for our time shared on the Pond. She thanks me!