I’m in my little room here… it’s what I’ve always called the sun-room though it’s not often sunny in here, it always feels like it ought to be. In the early morning the sun (if present) shines in a few little windows and then in the late afternoon, again, if present, the sun shines in the little window on the other side of the room. It’s a very tiny space in our home… but it’s where I see the world and where I study and dream. It’s also where I write and, through this screen, see the rest of the world. Some of my favourite books and favourite pictures surround me here in this little room… this little alcove serves as the quietest and busiest room in the house.
So, today I’m looking out at the world around me — though it’s nearly obscured by the now full and long branches of the weeping willow tree. I cannot really tell what season it is. The tree tells me it’s not winter or early spring… but the sky… the weather… it feels like the season of gray. It’s like gray’s the prevailing season here in the Pacific Northwest. It’s gray in the fall, it’s gray in the winter and it’s gray in the spring and summer. It’s gray lots of the year… and then, it feels as if the LORD scoops up a handful of sunshine every now and then and sprays it all around and then at other times, He flings some wind our way and brightens up the sky, sweeping it with the most brilliant blues imaginable. I attempt to recreate those days in the theater of my mind on days like today. Except for the constant whirring of the computer fan, it’s quiet enough to hear the birds in the trees outside. I can almost hear the different seasons’ children playing in the yard.
I can’t tell if someone ought to be bringing in a load of firewood… I can’t tell if I ought to be stirring some soup simmering on the stove. I can’t tell if I ought to get out the corduroy clothes or if I ought to be watching the flood tables. I can’t tell if I ought to be pouring over seed catalogs or if I ought to be pruning the rose bushes. I can’t tell if I ought to be canning applesauce or sewing or knitting. For outside, the skies look like fall? or winter? or early spring? or… yep, gray. It’s still gray.
It’s gray… it’s every season, but I know it ought to be summer-season. I can almost hear children jumping and splashing in the pool. I can smell the most delicious smells in the world… a curious blend of coppertone, iced tea with lemon, bain de soleil, dr. pepper and saltwater and sand… Ah… and it’s all happening here in this little alcove! If I stay here long enough, I’ll doze off with that dream and maybe fall off my chair… ah, that dream of summer breeze.
Instead… I have a job to do. Ah, yes… it *must* be summer! I’m making raspberry jam and jelly from the raspberries being picked by the bowlful. Yes, even if it is the season of gray… it must be summer! I’ve got to step away from here… I’ve got work to do. Gotta make hay while the gray shines!