The Beviad–musings, mutterings and myths

In the warm morning sun, she sits there, 

Her little flowered dress puffed about her, 

Soft light on her coppery hair. 

Quite random the items before her:

Crinkly Ladybug, Soft Silky Heart, 

Her Bumpy Blue Crescent, her “Sousie.” 

She tastes each, she sets each apart. 

Her pink sippy cup full of water, 

Her Fuzzy Blue Bunny. 

                                      With each 

Her plump little fingers select it, 

And others she finds within reach. 

And what does she make of these items? 

As one who’s so young and so small? 

Is she eying each one, like a fisher 

Might delight in the fruits of his haul? 

Is she counting them, much like a shepherd 

Counts all of the sheep in his fold? 

Is she touching each one, like a miser 

Might finger his diamonds and gold?

Does she taste them as if she’s a gourmand, 

Enjoying each thing she can chew?

Or is she, like some feminine Adam, 

Naming each, in a world that is new 

To her, in her own little Eden 

On the living room floor, in the sun, 

So absorbed in such serious matters 

On a day that is barely begun.

July is now a blur, but I know that it mainly consisted of two weeks at a cottage on Lake Memphremagog, where I must say I was quite miserable. The rain seemed interminable, and I cursed myself for not being able to think up things we could do in the cottage. Me, who once upon a time used to be a camp counsellor, a playground supervisor, an engaging mother to my daughter, and yet there I was, staring out the windows in despair, not wanting to play board games or engage in any arts and crafts. It was as if my entire body was saying “NO! I just want to curl up in a chair and read! Preferably with a blanket over my knees and a glass of wine, or even hot chocolate next to me, with the fireplace burning to take the damp off the air.”

This made for a rather damp and miserable stay, I’m afraid, which my husband and daughter carried off wonderfully, staying pretty chipper throughout, even though they did all the work, including walking the 8 month old baby, and in my husband’s case, taking my six year old grand-daughter swimming every day, rain or shine.  I just sat around non too cheerily and tried not to complain. I was also very achy from the damp, which followed us to bed at night, since the sheets were damp, too.

Anyway, we are now in August, and the weather is slightly better, with moderate cloudiness and less rain. It’s still not hot, thank goodness. This is my kind of summer weather, with temps in the low twenties centigrade.  Still, what can people my age do in the summer? Go for walks? My walking is limited, unfortunately, by arthritis. Which leaves what? I would like to go to lunch somewhere under an umbrella, with pleasant company. Unfortunately, my brain is fogged these days, so I can’t easily make small talk, and who wants to discuss larger things? 

Thus I turn to reading once again, always finding a friend, an escape, a pleasant pastime, as I listen to the tiny cries of the cicadas, a comforting August  sound.