Spring has sprung. My tiny yard is full of blooms--orchids, azalea, Australian tea tree, nasturtium, snapdragon, and statice. The roses are budding and the fig trees have showy new leaves. I picked a basket of lemons. I prayed that the Valencias will not be ready for another month. I can't deal with it. Last weekend I nearly killed myself with gardening--weeding and planting my dining room seedlings.
I've starting weeding my novel too. I've made it through the first 100 pages. I was surprised I actually liked some of the pages I've written and hope I'm not deluding myself. I wonder at the prospect of a seed of an idea that might actually grow into a story that can survive my edits.