What is it about staring into a fire that makes it so easy to just rest with your thoughts?

What a beautiful evening it was to do just that.

My day of zig zag garden puttering was as I expected: planting, reading, digging perennials and generally doing whatever I felt like doing. Perfect.

Perfect, at least until I evicted one scared little mouse from the lawnmower, where it had probably nested for the winter under the electric motor housing. I imagine it enjoyed a warm, safe winter in the cozy dome of that mower, and probably had no expectation of being tossed out in the spring.

Before mowing, I reluctantly disassembled the housing, eventually coaxing the mouse out. She (or he) sat for a long time by the mower, reluctant to move on to new horizons. Finally, I turned the mower on and (inadvertently) gruesomely killed a second mouse in the process—the mouse the evicted one must have been waiting for, I guess.

Of course, I didn’t mean to do this. I had no idea the second mouse was in the mower. I wish I could undo the whole scene. I wish I could remove the image of the second mouse from my mind. But I can’t.

My heart is heavy with a decision I’m trying to make involving one of my dogs. I should say, my heart was heavy, because I know now that I’ve made my decision.

Or, maybe, there was never a decision to be made, but just thoughts that needed to be sorted out in the quiet glow of a fire. Maybe I just needed to understand how much they need me to be there for them, to keep them warm, safe and cozy.

They expect it.