The last peonies.  No more until next summer. Cue moody photograph of hewn and strewn blossoms.

We've hit temperatures over 90, so peonies are long gone! I saved the spent blossoms for my worm-composting event last Saturday at the Walker. The compost worms eat mostly food scraps from my kitchen, but that seemed like a messy option for the 375 small children who came by my table. So I gave them the least offensive meal possible: cut up carrots and snap peas, flower petals and leaves. I felt like a fancy, fussy chef. Only the finest organic ingredients, tastefully presented. 


Along similar lines of tasty presentation, I've been trying to make new floral arrangements with the less showy plants in the vegetable garden. This one is calendula and other cool-weather edibles, in honor of the newly hot summer: bolted arugula, spinach, and cilantro. ("Bolting" is the fancy gardener term for a plant that's gotten its cue from the season to start producing flowers/seeds.) 

So summer is happening rapidly. I'm trying to stop thinking about all the things I haven't done, focus on the things I want to do right this instant. Which, I know, is just a way of reframing the same list. Sigh. 

Meanwhile, some of us are more successfully ignoring time's passage.

Sleep-at-Home Camp

I never went to sleepaway camp, but I suspect I would've loved it. As someone who can be anxious about being underprepared and far from home, I appreciate the feeling of constant productivity with the stakes of  friendship bracelets and s'mores. I like my brain to be on low hum.

For the past year, I've been jumping into all the activities that grad school presents, which means I've been alternately elated and stretched thin: free classes, teaching, extracurriculars, constant company, and the freshman 15 (again). 

This summer, I'm lucky and get to sit at home. I have an internship at the contemporary art museum. I get to travel and write. I get to cook, garden, and sew. And because even in Minnesota it doesn't snow (too far) into summer, I get to go outside.

So even though all I've written is really terrible poetry, I'm not mad at myself. Because I have time to look at things again, and slow down, and take note.