Making delayade

Well, surgery will be on December 8 or perhaps December 9. One or the other unless disrupted by the end of the world or something.

The moonrise November 14.

I've been struggling for the last week with being cross about the delay and feeling sorry for myself. Such a whiner!

I even let the weather change get me down a bit. We went from a high of 80 on Wednesday to a high of 31 on Thursday. A couple of cold, wind-driven inches of snow chimed in, and overnight temperatures tumbled all the way to 10 degrees.

So getting out, about and around was more difficult and less comfortable. I hobbled painfully through my winter chores and begrudged the great burden of having to report to the hospital daily for an infusion of IV antibiotics.

A real mopey arsehole I can be.

I had a tough night last night with aches and pains and fever and stomach upset. The morning dawned grim and cold and ugly.

My dog gave me a funny look when I prepared to head out for chores. She perked her ears, cocked her head to one side, and stared at me.

"Th' hell's your problem," she seemed to ask.

Then I got a whiff of my attitude and it smelled really bad.

I resolved to clean up my act.

I had to fake it at first. But it didn't take long to brighten my outlook.

With a big assist from Nona and from Nature's beautiful morning.

Nona's dad Jeeter, soakin' up the sunshine.

No wind, a huge blue sky, and the sun still high enough in the heavens to kiss the world with light and warmth.

As the temperature rocketed past 40 degrees the air came alive with the good smell of autumn. Damp earth, fallen leaves, warming bark, melting snow, freshly stacked hay bales, grain dust, warm cows, steaming fresh manure.

Snow and ice melted throughout the day. Cows and calves grazed, birds and small mammals flitted and fed, deer ghosted along treelines, the brilliant sun warmed by heart and my bones.

Then came sunset, with the atmosphere still and clear as glass while nature wielded her paintbrush on the canvas of the southwestern sky, daubing colorful pigments of air and dust and photons with gleeful abandon.

The air cooled and became bracing, cows continued to graze, dogs skittered around in dogish joy, and the last Cessna of the day turned final, chirped onto the runway, then snarled toward hangar and home.

I am so blessed to be able to experience the beauty of the day, the beauty of boundless, teeming life perched on the cusp of winter's annual nap. I could be chained to a hospital bed, could be really, really ill, but I am not.

I can take the delay that the world has given me and wallow in self pity. Or I can make delayade.

I shall try to do the latter.