Last week when the weather was cooperative, we packed a picnic and took a trip to Cloudland Canyon. It’s a nice state park located south of the state line. The trip was of an experimental nature. My husband’s knee has been a little bit wonky, and we needed to re-access his hiking ability before we started planning longer hikes.

Both of us grew up in rural areas. As people accustomed to fields, forests, and creeks, we have a less stringent sense of geographical boundary. Kids don’t observe barbed wire fences, they squeeze between cables. What appears to the casual observer as a flagrant disregard for trespassing, is usually nothing more than casual exploration, and the juvenile desire to mark territory.

I like Cloudland, but they have so many rules.

I don’t want to destroy the natural habitat, or damage fragile ecosystems, but I miss climbing, rock collecting, and stick hoarding. My husband misses blazing trails, and gaining better access to creeks and overlooks.

I want to preserve habitat for future generations, but I also long to collect moss and rocks to create a more natural setting within my own yard. In the past, I may have harvested these items, but only for the purposes of propagation, never destruction.

In spite of al the rules, we managed to have good time.

Two days ago it was sunny and 84 degrees, today we are having snow flurries. Is mother nature going through the change?

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My spouse is in the midst of a nine day business trip. Bleh! In this economic climate, I’m not so blasé as to take job security for granted, but nine days is a bit extreme for his profession. I’m sure there are service wives out there thinking, “Nine days? Suck it up, sister! Nine days is nothing compared to a twelve month, (or longer) deployment.” And they would be correct, but I don’t miss him any less.

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In his absence, I completed numerous tedious tasks he will take for granted once he returns. Some of the tasks were important to me, most were important for us, all were thankless. I don’t need validation, but I find myself resenting the aspect of him that is praise-driven. Why is praise required for something you should be doing in the first place (picking up clothes off the floor, or cleaning dirty dishes?). Bleh, such is life.

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What compels us to pity strangers? I was shopping and noticed an older woman in the pet food aisle. She had a curvature of the upper spine common in women with osteoporosis and she was obsessing over cat treats, while wheeling around a thirty pound container of kitty litter. She could be perfectly content, yet I assumed she should be pitied because she represented what I don’t want for myself. Old. Arthritic. Alone. Crazy. Cat. Rancher.

Technically it’s spring, but in reality it feels like a preamble. A mysterious pre-season gap yielding a glimpse of better things to come. The oak trees haven’t leafed out, though the red buds and bradford pears look majestic. The backyard is reflecting the diversity one would expect from living in a bird sanctuary; woodpeckers, cardinals, wrens, tufted titmouse, juncos and others. The red tail hawk’s nest should be visible another month, until the trees leaf out.

The lawnvarious miniature organic growths are transforming into lush shades of green. The earth is saturated with moisture and the temperature teases of possible days in short sleeves and sunglasses. However, the single potted impatiens I nursed through the winter months, me of brown thumbs, has promptly died because my husband placed it outdoors prematurely. Two gorgeous days in a row, and the eager beaver is convinced that mother nature wouldn’t possibly betray our trust now…of course he probably wouldn’t place as much faith in her if had his own period to deal contend with. His heart was in the right place, and now the plant’s rightful place will be the compost bin.

I’m not really bitter about the plant, mostly amused. She of brown thumbs and terrible nurturing instincts, as if I could be anyone else?

I’m floating between blah and whatever. By no means is it debilitating, intoxicating, or boring, but it lacks the feeling of purpose. So I will return to the scribblings of my todo list, inconsequential as the tasks might be, until I forget purpose and simply become.