Ready for August, and everything after.

My guidebook on "A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity" tells me to take artist dates. Just myself and the childlike artist ego that dwells somewhere inside me. Last night - a twilight swim and a movie. Tonight - Home Depot and a long drive.
The date was a chaser for bridesmaid research... what exactly separates the colors teal, sea foam, and mint? I think we decided the answer is merely the depth of the water in Lake McDonald, so that issue is resolved, for the evening.
Anyhow... Home Depot. Officially I was looking for potting soil. Errin and Nicole gifted me an Easter Lily when my grandfather passed away on Good Friday. Normally I'm not too swift with botany... but this one has stayed alive enough to sprout at least four new bulbs from the parent plant! Nope I have no idea what that means. Nope I have no idea if I can actually re pot and grow all these new individual plants... but I'm hopeful and excited to try!
Scoping out potting soil had me wandering around the plant section. So I deviated to decorative pots, plants, etc. Daydreaming about succulents, and Dacia's bout sophomore year with the treasures we found in the Bitterroot Flower Shop. Daydreaming about hydrangeas, and the plant my parents gifted from Virginia after being accepted to the photojournalism professional program. The mums I end up killing every fall. The lily I once had but disintegrated.
I hug my chosen potting soil. The store pulls my heartstrings.
I peer into a warehouse of "home". Do I even want to look more? I'm thinking I probably shouldn't, and I remember my date. Okay, sure, inner artist... we'll look at home stuff.
Cautiously, I magnetize to the paint section. sea glass... which swatch has sea glass? The DIY inspiration guides are no use in bridesmaid questions... so I leave that query, and let my eyes wander. Color. Tones. Muted. Saturated. Pure. Neutrals. Yellows. Greens. Blues. Purples. Whoa boy. I love that paint section.
Now, if IIIIIII had walls to paint, which color would I want where?
I stop. No, can't. Shouldn't. I take one last look-over... marinating in color, and walk away.
To get to my next favorite department... I have to walk through a few others. Carpeting. Flooring. Rugs. Tile. Ouuuu. I like tile.
My fingers brush over texture. Glass. Ceramic. Plastic. Stone. This one is lovely... where would this one fit...
Tile?! C'mon now, let's don't be silly.
Ah. Here we are. Lighting.
I look up, around. Down the aisle. Close to me. Into the next aisle. I walk slowly. The strange, beautiful, and holy moley I'd like to meet the person who'd like to put that in their home. Why is that collection called "The River Collection"? What would a ceiling or a room look like having illumination bounced from that fixture.
I think of houses I've known. Houses I have yet to meet. Houses I dream of. Different rooms. Different light. Different times of day. I imagine dinners around a table. Children with bed time stories. Sorting through the paperwork of bills. A porch.
The cashiers begin to watch me. I'm not talking... out loud anyway. They probably see something processing in me. And it doesn't bother me too much... because they don't know.
They can't know that I won't actually purchase any of these things. That to ask them about price, installment, warranty, sample swatches is a reality so far from my day-to-day life it's almost laughable. They don't need to know that.
I'm ushered to the check out, and trade $3.97 for what I feel, is a whole lot of soil. "Sure hope this works" I think.
The sky is turning grey, blue, green like a stormy sea. I feel our summer days shortening. Already. Knowing I have been making the most of these northern late-night dusks I take the long way home.
Rain.
Lured and ready. This coarse thirsty land salivates at stormy clouds. I can taste it processing through the water cycle. I pray it comes soon.
Colors of this place. Colors and ever shifting light. Coarse, crisp. My wings that strengthen in Montana do so under a harsher premise than the saturated softness of my roots. But tonight the two come closer together. "Please rain" something whispers. My heart? That inner artist? A Montanan nervous for fire season? A homesick Appalachian?
Nearly dark, I dodge a toad in the road. Love those amphibians.
Just about the time I return to my camper home, and spoon into the hand picked raspberries from this weekend, Geronimo returns to the door.
Tip tap. Slowly. Tip tip tap.
Wind picks up and slams our door shut. I close the roof vent. Tip. tip. It wants to... but it won't... quite... yet.
C'mon. Please rain.
Something in me peacefully calms. I believe. Believe it will rain.
Sleepy, the lilies will find a new pot tomorrow. I push my dreams of creation and home back to a quiet place.
It does rain. And I pray my artist has a palette, someday.