The weeds (mostly grass) are taller than many of the things I’ve planted and are in the process of reseeding themselves. Most everything looks puny or a little blighted. The potato plants simply shriveled up before blooming, the zucchini blossoms stay on the stem but don’t bear fruit, the basil looks a tad pale, and the cilantro has bolted, gone to seed, and turned a crispy brown. It looks pretty awful, I must say.

On the other hand, the coleus and other pots of annuals are doing well, and this morning’s perusal of the kitchen garden netted a double handful of bursting-with-sweetness cherry tomatoes (I gobbled them right off the vine), three little cucumbers, four fingerling potatoes, and all the sage, mint, and thyme I could hope for. So not so bad. The cucumbers will go in tonight’s salad, and I’ll boil the potatoes with sage and thyme.

Considering the small amount of time and energy I’ve put into the project, I’m still getting an inordinate amount of delight as I pull fists full of grass. I know that no chemicals have been used, so I won’t even have to peel the cukes.

Oh, I almost forgot: the best part is that I finally found a little patch of lamb’s quarters (Chenopodium album) to transplant, and I have my eye on a few other isolated plants that I’ll put with the rest. The unenlightened call them weeds, but I was raised on their spinach-like vitamins and minerals.

Taste of home, taste of spring and summer, taste of childhood, cutting greens on the way back from the asparagus bed.

Olive oil, garlic, sweet onions, herbs, four little potatoes, “a mess of greens,” and now I know what else is on the menu for later tonight.

As with most everything else in life, I suppose it’s all in how you look at it. We always have choices. I declare it all a roaring success, and that’s that.

After all, we all need planning time, time for reflection, decision-making time, problem-solving time, and time for “simply being.”

The big question is: “How can we begin creating thinking time?” Many of us find ourselves caught up in work, deadlines, crises, and the needs or demands of others. “Me time” can be hard to find or create.

For many of us, thinking time means writing time. Writing and journaling clarify our thinking, reveal hidden patterns and messages, and often bring the vague unknowns into conscious thought. As British novelist E. M. Forster asked, “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?”

Whether it’s a legal pad, a journal, sketch book, lab book, or log, the writing process is one of the best ways to promote clear thinking and decision making.

So how do we go about creating thinking time? The answers are as diverse as our personalities, proclivities, and environments.

A simple change of view can do wonders, whether it involves a walk during a break, lunch alfresco instead of “aldesko” at work, or pulling out a journal for a short writing break. Better yet is a longer period of time to let our ideas, needs, wants, plans, and hearts’ desires pour out at their leisure. A long walk or drive can let our minds unhook to be come relaxed and receptive.

Haven’t we all noticed that some of our best ideas or insights occur after exercise, using our hands in our favorite craft, gardening, or even while we’re not even aware of thinking. Long commutes, favorite music, and being in nature can stimulate some of our best thinking.

Creating thinking time is so important that we nearly always need to plan for it. This might mean making “artist’s dates” with yourself, scheduling “down time” and recreation, and making time for meditation. Simply setting aside a place and time for quiet and reflection can make all the difference. Some of us might want to take a break from the constant demands of our cell phones.

The most productive creators and inventors have taken frequent breaks and naps. The brain can only work efficiently for a certain period (around 40 minutes) before it needs a rest or change of pace.

Many of us like to sort things out by writing, by jotting notes, doodling, or pouring out our thoughts and feelings onto paper. Writing things down empowers us and makes the vague immensities more doable and less threatening. If you keep a journal or notebook, you can look back and see what progress you’ve made and learn from your own growth that may not be obvious to you at the time.

Creating thinking time and writing time and time for being are some of the most important things we as humans can do.

So how about you? How do you solve this near-universal dilemma of balancing work and creating thinking time and writing time? I’d love to hear your comments, your solutions, and creative ideas.

A summer morning cool, heavy, washed with dew and birdsong and with the promise of untold delights ready to unfold. Who knows what a day might bring?

First go get the newspaper from the mailbox near the road, then check all the little gardens. They’re all looking a little better, and the soil is gradually coming to a lovely, friable state

The weather is so crisp this morning that I have two thoughts: First move laptop and papers to the deck, then think about possibly, perhaps, just maybe cooking something like a fruit pie or roasted zucchini, yellow squash, and onions with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and fresh herbs from the little herb garden.

Both my mother and grandmother taught me to cook, each in her own way.

My mother taught me the same way she was taught in home economics class. Make sure your counter-top is clean and clutter-free. Lay out your measuring cups and spoons. Start reading the recipe from top to bottom, then take out the ingredients one-by-one and line them up in order of use.

After adding and properly measuring, of course, put each ingredient back in its place and swipe the counter with a sponge between ingredients to wipe up the slightest trace of flour or oil. By the time you’re finished mixing, your kitchen will be as orderly as when you began, and you can start to wash the numerous bowls and spoons in the sink. Pop your creation in the oven. You didn’t forget to preheat the oven to the precise temperature, did you? Now time to turn your attention to the next project.

I doubt my grandmother ever measured anything in her life or followed a recipe. Her method involved a jumble of jars, cans, bottles, bags of sugar, and a dusting of flour everywhere. Those were the days of sifting the flour and distributing it all over the counter-top.

Stir with a big wooden spoon in a wooden bowl to “about this consistency.” Now add a handful or two of flour, about “that much” warm water if the dough is too dry. Wash, dry, and flour your hands and knead “like this”—turning the dough a quarter turn with each forward push of the heels of your hands.

Along with the metal flour sifter, for pie crust, a pastry cutter was essential to reduce pats of butter to lumps “about the size of small peas” coated with flour. Then add ice water, and out comes the wooden rolling pin to roll out pie crust between sheets of waxed paper on a wooden slab. Dot the fruit with little pats of butter, dribs and drabs of flour and sugar. Pull the pie out of the oven when it’s done, “just like this.”

If you’re not sure about the readiness of a cake, the broom straw test will tell you the truth. If the color is not too brown and the broom straw comes out clean, your cake is just right.

Not so much science as art.

I may or may not get to the cooking part today, but I enjoy living simultaneously in the richness of both past and present, and remembering those exciting days of learning something for the first time.

Encouraged by the application of nutrients, the kitchen garden boasts tiny green tomatoes, one cucumber, greening parsley and basil, and a few baby peppers. 

Here in the United States, some consider this day a solemn time to contemplate the ideals upon which our country was founded. For many, it’s a day of barbeques, parties, marching bands, patriotic speeches, and trimmings of red, white, and blue.

As with most holidays, Frank and I like to spend this day alone together in blessed quiet with our books, journals, and Baroque music, preferably Bach.

But the thought of marching bands takes me back to scenes of childhood, to the times of the street fairs and parades of that village where I grew up. “Pop. 100″ read the signs at both ends of “town.”  Of course the many farm families for miles around came in to talk and trade, so the sidewalks hummed with activity.

That vibrant community no longer exists as such. A few houses remain, but not many, and most of the once-busy commercial enterprises pulled out or closed. The old-timers moved to larger towns with supermarkets, big-box stores, and gas stations.

And a community it was, a fairy-tale town, destined like Brigadoon to bloom a brief moment, then disappear. At least once a month we met at the school, which also served as a community center for boisterous sing-a-longs from The Golden Book of Favorite Songs.

Each of us would call out a favorite song in turn, and my mother would pound out a stirring introduction on the rattling piano to get us started. Rounds and songs with hand motions. Stephen F. Foster songs, Battle Hymn of the Republic, Flow Gently Sweet Afton, Oh Danny Boy, The Spanish Cavalier, and on and on late into the night.

For Independence Day, we often had a little marching band, contests of all sorts, and always lots of watermelon, home-cooked potato salad, baked beans, laughter, and camaraderie.

One year for our entry in the parade down Main Street, a few friends and I created a “marching tableau” of the famous painting, Spirit of ’76, about the American Revolution by Archibald MacNeal Willard.

There was no fife, but I played “The Star Spangled Banner” on my flute and wore a ketchup-smeared “bandage” around my forehead, two friends played their drums, and someone behind us carried a flag with 13 stars.

The quiet village has all but disappeared, but the sweet memories remain. I raise my metaphorical glass to the spirit of community.