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From the moment I woke up yesterday morning I had fresh-picked strawberries on the brain, as opposed to having any on hand. I had intended to hit up one of the many fab farmers’ markets around town, but had forgotten that my son was leaving for Chicago by way of Nashville the very same a.m. and didn’t want him to think that fresh strawberries were more important to my happiness than finding a fan for him to take, so I stayed put.

For the rest of the morning I spent lots of inner energy wishing I had asked some friends who were likely farmers’ market shoppers to nab me some strawbs and even proposed going to Dodd’s Farm in Mechanicsville to pick some knowing full well that wasn’t about to happen. At any rate, all my regret and wishful thinking and all-around looking glumly at my strawberry-less fridge worked wonders.  My sister arrived in the afternoon bearing fresh-picked berries from Chesterfield Berry Farm that tasted exactly like the strawberries from California don’t taste like–sweet summer. And then friends stopped by later with more local strawberries, so the fruit salad perked right up, as did I. And the ice cream tasted better than usual with some juicy sweet ones brightening up the bowl.  Having a husband with a badly broken ankle is starting to pay off.

Even the plants are reading my mind. Outside today in a little bed that I’ve neglected and meant to get to to clean out, I noticed blackberries ripening on the very vine whose thorns had always made it easier to walk on by than to pull it out. Either people (and plants) know me pretty well or mental telepathy (and procrastination) works.

I wake up every day thinking I can get everything done I need doing.  Somehow I believe this will be the day I check off thirty seven errands, fifty two emails, two dozen stories, five article pitches, a few children’s poems, and three essays in between planting dozens of annuals, buying more plants, weeding thousands upon thousands of weeds, transplanting 8 million liriope and daylillies, calling several people, organizing my desk, files, and closets, cutting up fruit for my fruit salad habit, making two pans of brownies from scratch for my other habit, and running 100 miles or so. Then sitting down to knit several rows of the throw I’m not making any progress on would be such a relaxing treat. Oh sure, running 100 miles seems slightly unrealistic, but I keep adding up the miles I don’t get around to running every other day and they add up.

I guess this approach makes me simultaneously sunny and stupid. Jim Croce couldn’t save time in a bottle, but it fits nicely in a trash bag.

I’m back!