Cue James Brown. I feel good. Two weeks into a six-week group grief counseling session, things are falling into place.

Bill Worrell gave me a gift once and never even knew he did it. He threw a Christmas party that was open to all comers.

It has come to this. From the drive as I enter it, I can no longer see the house. Trees obscure the view, trees that once were barely more than head high.

Dreamed I got laid off. Didn’t seem to bother me. Not sure what the job was or why I got let go. The dream came during a good night’s sleep. I guess it was just the brain’s way of cleaning things up.

One, true, beautiful thing. That was my thought last night as I endured another session of trying to stabilize a life destabilized by the death of my wife.

Sometimes, in the morning, when I walk around the yard or stand on the porch, everything feels as it was, especially on a Sunday.

I spent much of yesterday morning in the yard and gardens. Mowing, edging, pruning, digging on my knees. I took a long walk into town. At the end of the day, my hands ached, my arms grew sore, I tired.

Once upon a time I played the role of the stage manager in a production of Our Town. Now I’m doing it in real life. Previously, my wife occupied the role. But she’s gone.

I took my old friend, the ‘65 Gibson, out for a spin last night, new strings and all. A picker’s circle, which has to be one of the best inventions of all time.

The swallows are back. All the old nests have occupants. Out in the garden the spiderworts are in bloom. And we have a few bluebonnets. It’s a muted spring, however, the profusion of previous years is missing.

What a week it was. Or maybe two. Full of anxiety and anticipation, both good and bad.

Every spring is a watching game. The weather warms, the cool winds blow, the rains fall. As they do, I start watching the plants for signs of resurrection.

The front flowerbeds flanking the driveway entrance to our home are transformed. Gone are the spineless cactus. Laid low by the freeze, I cut them down and dug them up.

I suppose if one is going on a quest, then getting plenty of rest might be a good first step. Sounds sort of prosaic, but it feels right.

I’m going on a quest. I may actually already be on one. It may have started when my wife died, or even before that. It may not be important. But suddenly things feel purposeful.

The feeder is up, and the birds have finally arrived. For many long days it hung there in the branches of the mesquite by the pasture fence looking abandoned. Then gradually, one at time here they came.

Yesterday, as I sat filling out paperwork, for a dental procedure, my phone flashed on. The assistant who was helping me, said, “Oh, that’s nice,” when she saw the picture of me and my wife, in a warm embrace, on the home screen. I said, “Thanks,” then, after a small pause, added, “She passed away in August.”

Changed the sheets, made the bed, took a long walk, and visited my wife’s grave. Yesterday was a good day because I also had a revelation.

I know spring is coming, because I can see the discrete little signs, budding leaves are all around, on the roses and on the trees. But for some reason, the start of the season seems disconsolate,,,

I spent the weekend in the company of friends. Two days. All centered around music and food.