This weekend I worked in the yard. I pulled and cut at ivy. I gathered bags full of carob leaves. I picked up small handfuls of wrinkled nasturtium seeds and threw them somewhere else, while thinking of orange-, red-, and yellow-crinkled petals for spring. I worked on things for myself, thinking of nothing much in particular. And then I paused, to take in the yard, to try to see it as someone else might.
It's all too easy to hear the most critical voice; to notice only the untrimmed trees, the dirty lawn furniture, the dying vegetable patch.
So I am careful, in those moments, whose eyes I choose to look through.
I like to imagine to be my friend Wendy - turning about, noticing things I hadn't ever considered. Things turn to good when I look through her eyes.
There, I see a neglected succulent with long ugly stems and funky, leggy roots trailing down to make an unkempt spider web to the ground.
"Fabulous," Wendy says with a giggle. "You must tie it up with a big red bow!"
I spent a fair amount of time this weekend, wandering and wondering. And it all felt like good progress.