12 generations of chickadees

At least two people who ought to know better have asked me recently if I "have garden this year." (I started my garden somewhat before I moved into this house, and it is here providing for the local wildlife in all seasons; I'm not particularly good at annuals, nor do I consider them as more a "garden" than the rest of the planted biomass.) We met the new neighbor across the street the other day, while she was moving things out of her horse trailer into the house, and when told which house we lived in she said, "Oh, you're the herbologist." I'm not sure how I feel about that designation, either.

We are currently working through the various failure modes of dealing with bipolar mitigation; 3 days of missed meds ends in 2-3 days of missed functioning; 3 days of missed sleep only seems to lose one. I am in that state where I can only see the things I am behind on (of which there are many) and everyone needs to keep reminding themselves that this is actually progress. Also there are house wren and cardinal nests; I know where the former is, and assume the presence of the latter by Ms Cardinal's continued attempts to chase away her reflection in the living room windows. I'm sure there are others, but the sub-deck robins have departed (fledged or moved I'm not sure) and nobody else is quite so obtrusive. (I say, as the catbird starts yelling nonsense outside the window...)

I decided last night that what I want for my birthday is less clutter, so I guess I'd better start on that now. (My December birthday is for new years; my June half-birthday is for presents.) We'll see how long the impetus lasts.