Picking wildflowers.

Scarcely have I felt more like Elizabeth Bennet than in the moments prior to this. I spent a few hours watching Tanga today, but as the thunder started to roll, I felt that it was an okay time to head home. Had I possessed more provisions, I feel that it would have been interesting to study his behavior in the rain. However, I am now thankful for my coming home. Just as I reached the house, the fat drops fell and rolled off my arms. They were slow at first, but it was amazing how quick a rate their presence caused the cooling of the air. I find that the stifiling heat often hinders my desire to explore here, but for once, the weather felt quite perfect to me, so I decided that surely I must go pick wildflowers. They are so nicely in bloom around the woods of our backyard, and I knew that if the black-eyed susans were coming alive as they so were, there were other flowers to be found. Now, had I donned a dress, I certainly would have felt more 19th century romantic, but I might as well have been in one. I slipped off my shoes and felt earth--of a soft nature due to its dampness (!!!) squish between my toes. Ah, how grateful I became. I began to traipse at a leisurely pace among the trees and weeds and high grasses behind the fence that holds in the bricks that hold in me when it's hot out. Not today, though, I traveled around, feeling rough trunks with my hands, tickles of weeds on my legs. The raindrops were falling incredibly fast at this point, soaking my hair, face, clothes. I took my pocket knife to gingerly cut flowers of red, purple, yellow, as well as sprigs of evergreens, pink flowers from trees, the delicately shaped leaves of weeds. I traveled around for some time, finding the best colors and shapes, and then traveled home. I sprawled out on the back porch with different shaped containers of glass and tin, and I arranged lovely boquets. Beauty solely for the sake of beauty is my favorite--it's what true art is. I pulled a weed and planted it in a pot with soil I had found in our garage. "A weed?" you might ask. Yes, I weed, I would say. For what is a weed, but a plant we have not yet named worth of status in our gardens? Culture has merely chosen those plants that is most desires for planting in pots and keeping in windows, but I will tell you now, a weed is still green and alive and holds lovely shape and color and is something to tend and let beautify a room. In fact, I feel strongly affectionate for weeds, as you may call them. I am quite happy in this moment, my hair still a wet mess, sipping coffee and eating grapes.

Nothing incredily new with Tanga boy. He's still a little stressed by the female, but is observing her more frequently. I am also becoming quite familiar with the places he spends most of his time, and the place where he goes when he is stressed. This is a great finding, as we can now provide him enrichments and distractions in this area, so that he may be comforted in the area where he was previously displaying stereotyped behaviors.