Those of you who've been following me for any length of time understand the scattered nature of my literary ramblings.
Literary. Now there's a high-falootin', five dollar word. Like I'm Oscar Wilde, or Willa Cather.
Over the years, I've written novellas and poems, books, blog posts and snippets held together by the accompanying photographs. My muse is demanding, but inconsistent at best. I can go for months and not write a word, then swing wildly to drown in the flood of ideas and thoughts, a clamor of observations, opinions, and views, each waving their placards; shouting over the next, pressing me to hear hear hear!!
See what I mean? I get carried away with the tiniest of sensory delights, so much so that they take on a life of their own and become alive; a lyrical photostory, or a tale of ridiculous proportions, characters rising out of a sea of words like dolphins surfing along the wake of a sailboat.
This morning it was petals. Fist-sized curls of deep, purply-red peony petals, blowing in the wind as I emerged from the house to walk the dogs. There were so many I thought my husband must have scattered them along my path on his way out to work.
The muse started chattering before I even returned to the house.
Gardens and the charm of spring.
Even after flowers finish their glorious show, their petals remain to remind us of their fleeting beauty. It's yet another springtime cliche; brief, yes, but we've only to wait until next year, and they'll be back again to dazzle us with their cheerful, bright colors and captivating fragrance.
All too soon, it's over and the workhorse season of summer barges in. That's what I love about the seasons; they remind us to slow down and appreciate what's happening around us- which won't return again for another 10-or-so months. In our modern, high-tech, connected times, when we hear about the cataclysmic earthquake, or the horrifying terrorist attack within moments of the event, I find the slowness of the season to be ultimately comforting. Each day of every season has something to offer; overtures that we have only to reach out and take. It's a natural balm to our calloused souls. a healthy gift from the Universe which is available to us all, should we choose to accept it.
'Stop and smell the roses', is a cliche we've all used, seldom taking it's ancient advice. Roses or peonies, the legacy is the same:
Today is the best day of all.