Above: Interior hallway in the basement of Open Book, with the cracked cement floor; odd floor levels; brick and stone walls. Click on the image to view an enlargement. (From a small pocket journal I had on hand—a small paperback notebook from Hahnemühle— and a Faber-Castell Pitt Artist's Calligraphy pen.)
It's hard for me to believe that it's spring because I spent most of the spring we had this year inside coughing out a lung. But the coughing stopped last Friday, or seemed to. I tested its absence by taking a short test ride on my bike outside. Slight coughing. I spent Sunday hanging my 2014 fake journal with the most patient photographer in the world who then shot it for me. And then I spent Sunday late afternoon and evening walking dogs with my friend Nan (she drove into the city so her dogs could spend some more time getting used to my neighborhood—where they will visit soon). Monday I still wasn't coughing but I knew I'd been over doing it. It was a quiet Memorial Day, full of gratitude.
But by Tuesday I could say I'm back, tired, but back. No coughing.
And of course now spring is over and it's 80 degrees (which is broiling to me) and everything is not only in blume, but past blume.
On Saturday evening Dick and I got out for a short walk and I was able to get the full impact of the "pixie stick" plum tree (mentioned in the hiatus link below).
So because I almost missed out this year on spring, and we are going straight to summer, I'm posting my favorite spring post, from 2009: Spring, Sunshine, Smells, and Memories of Childhood. In it I make clear my relationship with plants.
I recommend you get out on a bike or out for a walk, and connect with the 8-year-old inside who has been cooped up long enough and will forgive you missing spring, if you allow a little summer latitude.