It's time for everything to pop. The garden is pushing on, making leaps and bounds after such a strange spring. I found giant turnips where there were none before and I feel I am going crazy. The art festival season, too, is in full season. In this case, nature is against me. Just when I am at my busiest is when all the amazing things start to happen. I will be hurrying to finish a task, just in time to find an awesome dragonfly or spot a new flower to paint. But now I have so little time to do it and my days end with me feeling guilty because of not accomplishing all I desire. Why is winter so long and slow? This is torture.