Missing what's important

It is a late-spring morning, and I am scrambling. I woke up remembering all the things I forgot to do yesterday afternoon before a neighbor's party - cancel a doctor's appointment for Monday, move the date of a wine shipment for a friend, water everything outside.

"You kind of checked out yesterday, didn't you?" remarks JBL. I reply feebly that my interval run messed me up, and I hope that is true. The perennial specter of The Alzheimer's weighs on me. However, I do think yesterday's schedule-less nature did funk with my usual ability to keep things straight in my mind. At least I got my intervals in.

So since there is nothing to be done with a closed doctor's office and a wine merchant on the Left Coast at this early hour, I hurry outside with my watering can. I barely register that it is already warm enough for me to be comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt, and it is pleasantly humid. Squeak-squeak-squeak says the spigot as I turn on the water, with the hose face-down in the green can. I cast a critical eye over the nearby bed, looking for new weeds to be plucked. Squeak-squeak-squeak, I turn off the water as I hear the can overflowing.

I am accompanied by the clapping of my flip-flops down the hill and around to the back yard. First the hibiscus is dowsed, then the newly-liberated houseplants. I stop to pull a few weeds from between the pavers and glare at the numerous ant holes across my spacious patio. My mind briefly flickers an image of JBL and J up in the kitchen eating bagels with cream cheese, and talking in quiet tones so as not to disturb a still-sleeping K.

Under the deck and out into the vegetable garden, I give a thorough drink to the tomatoes and basil, the peppers and rosemary, the lettuces and peas. With a heavy sigh, I set the can down and harvest the bursting pea pods that have ripened overnight, my mind skittering across the concern of my doctor's appointment. How can I possibly reach them to cancel now? The appointment is for 9:10 Monday, so by the time they get the message he will already be en route to the office. They'll probably charge me anyway. And he'll want to know why I am canceling. I don't want to have that conversation. And I have no idea what to do with all these peas.

I stand and walk up to the east side of the house, now cradling several pints of peas in the front of my shirt, and set the watering can down. I climb around a happy Japanese holly and a prickly barberry to find the hidden strawberry plants. Still holding my shirtfront as a makeshift basket, I swish my hands across the tops of the strawberry leaves in search of ready-red berries. The first one I see has a recent gash in its side thanks to a hungry slug, and I am irritated. "Figures," I think to myself, noting the berry's otherwise perfect color and size. It sits adjacent to a pile of coffee grounds I had sprinkled to avoid just such a fate (based on the recommendation of a talented gardener friend). A soft voice in my head reminds me that I have harvested significantly more berries so far this year than last thanks to this trick, and for that I should be grateful. I turn away.

As I stand bent-over near the wall to the morning room, brushing at the leaves, I catch many glimpses of red - little bits of perfection growing silently where I planted them. In spite of me. And as I pick them, I am subtly chastened for missing the perfection around me every moment of every day.

I stand and climb out from behind the shrubs with a fresh pint of strawberries on top of my peas. I pick up the watering can and climb the deck stairs to find the annuals, and finish what I started...