Waiting for Summer
June doesn't feel quite like June yet.
The mornings are still crisp enough that I've found myself watering plants in a winter onesie, which feels pretty strange this far into the season. The geraniums are craving sunshine and warmth, but week after week of soaking rain has left me pinching away yellow leaves and waiting for steadier weather to arrive.
Summer is close, though. I can see it in the miniature rose I've carefully tended for years. Tiny buds are beginning to form, promising blooms that always seem to appear overnight once the weather finally settles.
One afternoon this week, the clouds broke long enough for the sun to warm the garden. With a cup of coffee in hand and my dog stretched out beside me, I spent a few hours simply watching. Birds moved between the feeders. A chickadee splashed happily in a shallow bath. Somewhere nearby, our neighborhood owl announced himself repeatedly despite the daylight.
Beside me, my dog Marzie watched everything.
Even when she appeared half asleep, her ears turned toward every subtle sound. Her nose twitched constantly, gathering information from the air that I couldn't possibly detect. We share the same garden, yet I suspect we experience entirely different worlds within it.
It made me wonder what speaks most loudly to each of us. For my dog, it seems to be scent carried on the breeze and sounds hidden within the trees. For the birds, perhaps it's movement and instinct. For me, it's often something less tangible. I experience the world largely through atmosphere, emotion, and feeling. It's probably why music affects me so deeply and why I've always been drawn to creating spaces that carry a particular mood. We all move through the same landscape, yet each of us seems to notice something entirely different.
The farmhouse is changing, too.
As renovations continue, a neighbor has been carefully digging and transplanting many of the plants we'll be removing. Some originally came from my mother's gardens, which makes it especially meaningful to know they'll continue growing just up the road. While I'm sad to see them go, I'm looking forward to a quieter palette of greens, whites, and soft grasses that feels more reflective of this season of life.
I've never viewed renovations as purely aesthetic projects. For me, a home evolves alongside the people living in it. Sometimes the changes are about honoring the life you've lived. Other times, they're about preparing for the life still ahead.