Since I try to post some words every Sunday (and it happens to be Sunday today), I am now sitting at the kitchen table, thinking of something to write. 
Often, when I search inside myself for inspiration, something bubbles up, like a little pocket filled with something that wants to be expressed. A thread, a line, a feeling charged with a promise.

But now, after having worked in the garden all day, there is nothing there. 
No theme, no intention, no deep thought.
My mind is filled with images of the weeds I pulled out, of the sun through the leaves, the cobwebs I removed from the windows. I can still hear the sound of a distant lawn-mower, the panting of my dog who followed me everywhere, birds, bumble bees, far-away planes high in the sky. 
So this is it.
A story of dirt, weeds, sun, spiders and air.
Nothing the mind can cling to. 

What a lovely, peaceful day!

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