Our days can be measured in piles of clover and piles of super hero capes, bouquets of wildflowers and tame ones alike, rows of green beans and rows of dahlias, strawberries in everything, crunchy lettuce, and afternoon treats of poached eggs on toast in the grass.  When I wash only my feet off before climbing into bed, because I am too exhausted to even take the much coveted lavender oil bath, or when tales of Paul Bunyan’s destructive yet appealing behavior lulls all eyes into a deep slumber; That’s how I can tell its been a good day.  The list of to do’s seems to remain stagnant because nothing seems as important as imprinting the sounds of these early summer birds, the softness of peonies on my cheeks, and the smell of humid air, deep into my limbs and chest, storing them up for the winter.

Despite my acknowledging mindset of the chirps and blooms around, my patience with two very excited, sometimes (ok, most times) very loud boys, ultimately dwindles at three.  Like an alarm clock, my eye balls twitch when the bell strikes three and the red bleeping lights announce that hormones and exhaustion will now be kicking in.  The only survival mechanism has been to find a place to sink my toes into the frigid running waters that are so plentiful in these parts, and set them free.  Though sometimes it is not possible, it does seem we are able to manage at least a jaunt down to a stream, if not a quick drive to the riverside.  But that move towards cooling down is vital.  Very, very vital.

But it all comes back together again with the arrival of the most coveted man in our lives.  Another bell goes off around 6:30, a singing bell to be precise, a moment of silence (oh, the silence of two sweet boys for an entire minute is simply a miraculous, beautiful thing) and supper is served just in time all four (almost five!) of us to circle our table.

Summer days.  The solution to everything.