It’s boiling here. 90 Degrees today. 94 tomorrow. 95 on tap for Saturday. No cloud cover. It’s being baked and steamed at the same time.
For those of you in desert regions, go ahead and scoff. Just remember, winter makes this place our Mojave, our Sahara. Only in the inverse. So, while you’re complaining about how “last night was freezing”, in the 30s or 20s or teens, we are, in actuality, freezing. It’s deadly out there. And there is no arctic equivalent to the camel, on whose back we can slump as it carries us to more suitable climes.
It’s all perspective. These days are hot and uncomfortable. Even deadly. For us, at least.
Earlier today, Robbye beckoned me out to the flower garden beside our garage. Three small, delicate marigold flowers had broken open overnight. Newborns. She watered them—a lot. I’m afraid, though, that the omnipresent sun will overwhelm them. That they will succumb. That they will whither.
I pray we can love them through the next few days.
These, too, are our dog days.
It is, of course, the beautiful summer of my life. The blossoming. Without question.
The environment we in which we live, however, is hot for now. What’s happening with the next project? How will we sustain? Where are we heading? Who the hell is going to write me a freakin’ check for all these projects I am on tap for?!?
Our faces, like those of our precious marigolds, are smiling upright, into the sun. We’re ever reaching upward, toward the blue sky.
I wonder at times whether our little flowers get tired like we do. They must. Because that’s when plants whither, right? Too much heat, too little water. Without TLC, they flop over, exhausted. After a time, they dry up.
Protecting us from the heat, making certain we are bathed in the cool and nourishing water, that’s the key for us. And for everyone, I know. Our attention, our TLC, is key for our continued blooming.
That’s my realization for today. As I sweat in the heat of the afternoon. As I move through these dog days.