Twenty-One Minutes

The summer days begin to shorten. The sun rises about 15 minutes later and sets six minutes earlier. Twenty-one minutes. The days will continue to shorten as July slips away, and by early August the diminishing light will be remarkable.

I think about the poem that inspired this series and my thoughts during these summer days. Soon they will be half gone, the 100 days of summer. I ask myself if I've been living each day to its fullest and wonder and, at the same time, if it's possible to live all our days to their fullest.

For now, the days are long and the morning light comes early. Evening light still tarries past eight. The air hangs heavy with moisture and the sun's heat is fierce. The garden is overgrown with weeds, and the herbs spill over the edges of their pots. Rainfall relieves me of watering. Heat and humidity keep me from the weeds. Mosquitos keep me from enjoying the patio in the evening. Morning swims continue to delight. 

Work feels meaningful and time with friends is valuable and uplifting. I continue to work my way through moving boxes and work the puzzle of what home is here. 

Another storm moves through this evening. Lightning flashes and thunder sounds. Rain comes hard and loud. It's expected to clear by morning and pass through again tomorrow evening, cooling the days.

Tomorrow Has Become Yesterday is a daily writing practice that opens a landscape of discovery into my own human experience.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.