July.

It's been a little weird not posting anything for nearly three weeks; I guess this means that the blogging, which I started a year ago this month, has really become an activity that brings some degree of satisfaction. Who'd have thunk it. Sitting here in the quiet early morning sun, sheep munching away and Henry sleeping at my feet, it dawns on me that it's maybe not the actual blogging that brings me the reward but the process of getting into the place where I can actually sit down and be quiet enough to write. To think enough to write something that may actually mean something and sort of sound good. When that quiet is elusive, which it can easily become in a fast-paced world and sometimes demanding life, the writing becomes nearly impossible. Something to think about today as I weed the garlic bed.

baby spiders in a pickle jar.

I have been watching a thousand little spiders hatch and slowly move around inside an upside down pickle jar on my porch. I'd gotten a few of the wholesale sized jars from a friend who owns a great cafe in town for the purpose of making sun tea, and one empty jar apparently provided a perfect spot for a spider to lay its eggs. After watching them for a few days, yesterday I moved the jar down to the garden and put it on its side with the hope that the spiders would figure out how to crawl out of their glass house.
No one I know, not even baby spiders, should be living in glass houses.