I am reading Mark Spragg’s Where Rivers Change Directions, savoring the pulse of a life vastly different than mine, yet so much the same: friendship, hard work, the confusion of love, loss, the dynamics of family, intertwined with a rural Wyoming life, much of it spent on horseback. Normally I am a swift reader, devouring books in short order, but this one will be eked out, pages pored over, a slow eddy in a vivid stream of thought.

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My dad worked nearly his whole adult life at Coors, and when I was a kid he was on the swing shift, the majority of our shared moments spent in the brief window before I left for school in the morning, him sitting at the head of the dining room table, reading the Rocky Mountain News. The first time I remember being alone with him was on summer vacation, most likely, or some rare sunny weekend with him off work, running errands in our sky blue Monte Carlo (I loved that car!), no seatbelts and me peering over the dash in the front. In another first, we stopped at a convenience store, and he let me pick out a treat. There was no dawdling in my choosing, a bag of Circus Animal cookies, the allure of pink and bright sprinkles too dazzling for my girlish heart to pass up. I’d never tasted anything like them, which was made better by the fact that my Dad bought them for me, on a treat of a day, and I didn’t have to share, though I did, with him.

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I had my second shirodara treatment last night. It is an Ayurvedic practice where warm oil is slowly dripped onto the center of the forehead. The hubster says it sounds like some form of torture, but that could not be farther from the truth. It is calming and peaceful, great for this spastic writer’s mind. I highly recommend it, along with my practitioner, the kind and knowledgeable Rose. That and my morning yoga practice have me floating today, despite a heavy heart over the tragedies of the week.

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Last weekend was one for labor, donning garden trousers and wellies. I fertilized the lawn but did not mow before it rained, so it is a wild emerald belly tickler for the birds, cats, and squirrels. The hubster joined me on Saturday and Sunday to cover half of the front yard in a multitude of cardboard and bark mulch in preparation for native plantings this fall. I love the look of a woodland, dappled shade and rambling wild berries and ferns, so that is what it shall be. We also dug new beds in the back for blueberries, strawberries, and rhubarb. I am proud to say I did it all without so much as a blister, which is rare.

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And today, this afternoon, a bath to wash out last night’s oil, and a walk with my sweet friend Amy. It just gets better…