rewrite your day

Last Friday began at the quarry.

Twelve courses of limestone had been waiting on me since Tuesday.

The north orchard has needed another retaining wall for some time, and I was ready to begin. The blocks were stacked neatly beside the truck before the sun had climbed very far.

On the way back, just three miles from the quarry, I passed the nursery. I have driven past it without stopping before. I am not certain what was different last week.

I stopped.

The fig saplings had arrived.

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There are decisions that cost only time.

There are others that quietly alter the years ahead.

I spent longer there than I intended. Walking the rows of young trees. Looking at trunks no thicker than my thumb, imagining shade they would never give me quickly enough.

By the time I reached High Ground, the afternoon was already leaning toward evening.

I managed to lay only the first course of limestone before the rain arrived.

It has been raining for nearly a week.

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I curse projects started and abandoned almost as often as I abandon them. And a half-finished wall has a way of drawing your eye.

Each morning I looked toward the north orchard and saw only what remained undone. It would have been easy to decide the day had slipped away the moment I stopped at the nursery.

But that isn’t the whole story.

There are now six young fig trees wrapped in burlap waiting beside the greenhouse.

The stone is already here. The wall simply has to wait for dry ground.

What appeared to be delay was only the beginning of two kinds of work instead of one.

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My coffee has gone cold.

Looking out the kitchen window, I can see sunlight reaching the north orchard.

The soil looks rich and prepared.

Not every delay is a loss. The orchard looks no worse for having waited a week.

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The limestone is waiting. So are the fig trees.

I’ll finish the first course of the retaining wall this morning.

The orchard can keep growing after that.

✧

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This letter is now part of the Conservatory — those who find one often need another.