In the life of a touring musician, there is always a period of adjustment to being home after being on the road. We weren't out that long this time, really - just about three weeks - but we moved from 100° dry Texas heat to damp highs in the 60s here at home in just a couple of days, with most of those couple of days being spent in the confines of a car moving at 70+mph.
I maintain that I have the best job in the world, and I'm not really complaining, but... I will say that this past week has been chock full of opportunities to pay close attention to experience, and to my emotional reactions to that experience.
One bright light this week has been the frequent visits from our neighbor's chickens. These four ladies squeeze themselves through gaps in his fence to graze all over our yard. They go where the food is plentiful, and then they move on. When it rains, they gather under one of the fruit trees until the rain passes, and then they move on. When they get separated, they cluck cluck to one another until they are reunited, and then they move on. One day I sat out there watching them while doing some work on my laptop, quietly singing Louis Jordan's version of the old blues standard, 'There ain't nobody here but us chickens / there ain't nobody here at all'
The neighborhood songbirds are rediscovering our feeder that we are now able to attend to. And just like that of the chickens, I have been loving the simplicity and elegance of their movements, their near-silent teamwork, their beautiful colors, their quirky songs and calls, their calming presence.
The foliage has been so beautiful too, particularly on those days when the sky is empty of clouds, providing a bright blue canvas from which the golds and yellows and reds and still-greens to pop.
In a world with so much beauty - and so much despair - I'm still so grateful for the work that I do, and for the continued health and happiness I'm enjoying while I do it - even when I am feeling a little grumpy about these chilly mornings.
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