Heavy snow is coming this morning. It's the last chance to clean up the garden and put away the paraphernalia that's lying around because very soon it will all be covered with a big thick white blanket.
I want to harvest another gallon of parsley, the last shreds of chard, a few pathetic cabbages, and some more kale. I wonder how much of that will actually get done?
Last week, a friend lamented that her friend who had done tons of research in his (and her) field of interest had died. Before she got over to his apartment, his heirs had thrown out all his papers in black trash bags.
What is it that we really want to do, but don't quite get around to? We are distracted by daily life. We are in denial that the snows of winter are coming.
This cleaning up of loose ends is one of the reasons i publish an annual book of my writings. I used to think that the administrator of my estate could hire someone to go through my writing, but now i see how unrealistic that idea was. All my writings, all my notebooks, will be thrown out in black trash bags, and my computer, and all its files, will be scrapped. That's the reason to publish now. Because i will perish one of these days. Maybe today.
This year's manuscript is almost ready to go to the book designer. So she'll have something to do when she's snowed in today.
Here's a list of some of my previous books:
Every Good Thing
At the Mercy of the Elements
That Rascal Mind