I’m like Lady Bird Johnson (up in here, up in here.)
The thorny subject: the wild rose bush in the corner of the yard. He doesn’t like it because it gets unruly, grows over the fence, and isn’t disciplined like your orderly and sanitized Home Depot shrubberies that bear blooms with no smell.
This is the first outdoor space I’ve really had. First garage, first yard, first non-apartment, really. And so, I don’t mind the wild tangle of peachy blooms that got a very severe haircut yesterday. I don’t mind that it grows with no agenda. I don’t mind that it pops blossoms when it feels like it. And I don’t mind practicing the Hypocratic Oath of Horticulture: First, do no garden shears.
Save the wild rose bush. Won’t you join my cause? There might even be a secret handshake or lapel pins.
Okay, flowers too. Germany does pickles and flowers, quite well indeed.
Warm enough to ride in shorts, with enough evidence of the season that it makes you stop, roll back, and look again.
Tree flurries.
Monday morning in the mountains, Tuesday morning on a run.
Flakes for petals is a pretty good trade.
In 14,000 steps, I saw frogs and fish, buds and chickens, tiny purple flowers and shiny yellow ones — and the first daffodils of the season.
And proof that spring is going too fast already.
Tiny peek of sprung looking out.
Spring is supposed to be all rebirth, He is Risen, Aries-fueled manic renewal.
I’m so defiant. For my entire life, I’ve suffered from the opposite. For every April and May in memory, from Vernal Equinox to Summer Solstice, I suffer. I call it the Spring Sleeping Sickness for lack of accurate Web MD diagnosis, but from the moment my eyes open in the morning I’m desperate to sleep again.
For the whole. Season.
I’ve tried to blame Daylight Savings, latent allergies that only manifest themselves in a complete sucking of life force, or some sort of reverse SADs, but I think there is no answer. It just is. Though it does make me muse in between naps, when they say “On the third day, he rose again,” I think, “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
And I pull my sleep mask down again.
Seriously. Try it. I bet it’ll work. It was… intoxicating.
My horticultural husbandry might not be in practice, but Wisteria? I think?
Wist. Full of.
This is the field that made me cry the other day, it’s so dang beautiful. It defied being put in the camera right, but I tried.
Everything is in bloom. And my brain needs a little regeneration too.
So I’m leaving this here, as a brief place for imaginations to swim, in a sea of yellow.
Plus, Mercury is in retrograde and as it’s my ruling planet, I have nothing to say. For possibly up to 48 hours. I KNOW.
Or, until I finish a book. Whichever comes first.
