There are weeks when I feel as though I have been chasing small questions across the desert wind. The only one that seems to have answers for me is ChatGPT.
Why is my phone showing news from three months ago?
Can I edit a post from 2020 without rearranging time itself?
What exactly is the best flagpole for a front yard that faces the Zephyr winds of the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada?
Some weeks are not dramatic. They are simply full of details. Tax papers. Organizing materials in the NOK (Next-Of-Kin) box. Preparing documents for the notary. Meeting with the financial planner. Small projects that take organizational skills to conquer. Hours of meetings with ChatGPT to find out we did everything just right after all.
And yet.
Out the window at Winterpast, nothing appears concerned.
The apricot tree does not fret over formatting. Its branches stretch confidently toward the pale high-desert sky, holding the faint promise of spring in tight little buds. It has survived windstorms, pruning days with our trusted Tree Doctor, and summers hot enough to make even mustangs seek shade. It doesn’t panic as it waits.
Oliver and Wookie certainly do not panic.
At 5:00 a.m. sharp, they present themselves for freshly shredded cheese as though the entire economy of the world depends upon it. Breakfast is not optional. Dinner at 4:00 p.m. is not theoretical. Their confidence in the structure of life is astonishing. They never once ask whether the internet is working or if the archives are in chronological order but simply trust that breakfast will arrive.
There is something instructive about that.
This week I’ve been revisiting old posts from 2020. Touching words written in a different season of my life. With gentle editing and a sentence adjustment here or there, I’m discovering that I can polish the past, but I cannot relive it. The dates remain. The story stands. Time moves forward.
Winterpast understands this better than I do.
The decomposed granite paths stay put even when the dogs kick gravel into next Tuesday. The desert wind sweeps through whether I have solved my latest technology riddle or not. The sky over Northwestern Nevada shifts from silver morning to cobalt afternoon without waiting for my permission.
After six years of daily blogging, I sometimes think inspiration must arrive dressed in fireworks. But perhaps steadiness is the greater miracle. Showing up and writing anyway, while organizing years of memories so someone can begin at the beginning. Trusting that even quiet weeks are part of the whole.
All the while, Winterpast never panics. It endures winter, leans into spring, and endures the wind. And maybe that’s the lesson on this beautiful Friday morning.
Life doesn’t need to be extraordinary to be meaningful. The ordinary, wind-touched, cheese-at-dawn chapters are where faith is practiced quietly and love deepens without spectacle.
Winterpast is not in a hurry.
And maybe I don’t have to be either.
I’ll be back Monday. Have a great weekend.