Travel is tiring. Not so much for the hours but for the lack of sureness, the constant need to negotiate where I fit into the surrounds I find myself in. But today the equilibrium started to be regained. I cooked and gardened and started to feel like my home and my life are mine, again. This morning I went to yoga and then all afternoon I built a compost heap from all that wilted promise that greeted us when we came home from Brisbane. The zukes, loads of tomatoes that didn't make it through our comings and goings, the straw from the no-dig potato beds, the last of the mildewed plums, the first falling leaves and rotted apples - it's an end of summer compost heap.
Composting is tiring, especially coming on top of an unexpectedly hard yoga session (it didn't feel that strong at the time) and the upheavals of the past month. It has to be something you really, really want to do, if you're going to get through four hours of hauling and pitchforking and being soaked by the sprinkler. And I really, really wanted to do it. It was hard work and immensely satisfying work and now, this evening, I feel rooted.