It is odd in the first days of August to look out the kitchen window and see a lawn of intense green. A lawn that would make a suburban dad proud. A lawn that would make an HOA smile. A lawn that speaks of a surfeit of water. A lawn that speaks of rain.

Got up this morning, made the bed, and thought, this is an odd thing, making my bed when no one is looking.

I’m still thinking about space. Although yesterday it was about emptiness. About clearing away things to give yourself room to breathe, to focus on what’s important.

I got to thinking about space yesterday. Emptiness. The space between things. The void that gives you time to think, to pause, to reflect, to look.

There’s big medicine and there’s little medicine. Mostly, I’ve been writing about big medicine. Life threatening things, aneurysms, hearts. But that little medicine is still there. Last Wednesday my back spasmed when I bent over at the waist to pick up a bowl rather that stoop down.

I like dew on freshly mown grass, the tracks of the mower clear and clean. I like dew on light green leaves, the new growth. I like dew beneath my feet. An abundance of moisture.

I’ve been on a mission over the last several years combatting bindweed. Bindweed is winning. In fact, I now know my enemy’s true name, Purple Bindweed.

After last summer, I swore if another string of 100 degree days fell upon me, I would head north until it cooled. Mother nature must have wanted me in Texas, however, because so far, this summer has been delightful.

Metaphorically I’ve been staring at my navel for nearly ten years. Now, for the first time, I am acutely aware of what lies behind said navel.

The rains came. I cleaned. I dusted. Vacuumed. Mopped. Stored. The countertops are nearly empty. The floors bare. As I suspected, my mood lifted. Improved.

Today feels like a low running river, there’s movement if you look close, but there are plenty of pools of stagnant water.

A sage plant sits on either side of my driveway entrance, a third sits opposite my kitchen window along the north fence, and a fourth sits behind the big oaks, ostensibly to block the view from the street of the space behind the workroom. They are all, in gloriously, flourishing full bloom, purple delights, beneficiaries of coolish summer weather and rain.

I like the digital world, particularly as it relates to medicine. I can make appointments, ask questions, get reminders, basically stay in touch. Where it falls a little short, oddly enough, is when it gives me access to my reports for blood work, scans, MRI’s, and sonograms.

We’re having a hill country summer. There’s rain to keep things growing, and the summer heat is bearable. Unfortunately, the lakes and rivers are too low and too dry. But it’s still nice to be able to go outside.

As I stood by the front room window this morning, looking out onto the pasture, a fox popped up from beneath the sumacs. He trotted along into the back porch garden, paused to mark scent on a big rock by the rosemary and continued on his way.

Went outside this morning looking for inspiration. Found none. The air was cool, the plants looking healthy, but nothing rang my bell.

This is one of those days when words fail me. I’ve just had my 78th birthday and I’m on my fifth assassination or assassination attempt of a US president or candidate for president, and all of those happened in the last sixty years of my life.

Yesterday was a day of relatively mindless work no one will ever notice, except me. I weeded the platform behind the garage where I keep the trash cans and a rainwater collection tank.

There’s a lot of mourning going on these days. People I know are passing left and right. The old crowd is getting smaller. Inevitable but still distressing.

Another birthday is in the books. It was sweet. Got calls from the kids early and friends as well. Plus, good old Facebook chipped in. More than 100 people sent me greetings.