The possible's slow fuse is lit by the imagination. Emily Dickinson
The lilacs are loving this long, cool, and wet spring. They just keep getting plumper, and more purple, and light-headed. The heart-shaped leaves make me smile beyond green, even. I snipped an armload of them, it feels so opulent, almost as though it is too much to accept. Through my years of yards and gardens, I have rarely picked the lilacs, thinking that they are most beautiful outside. Two days ago, I threw caution to the wind, buried my face in the foliage and fragrance, and voila! Now they are in one of my favorite old blue quart jars: Perfect!
My Little Mom used to admonish me for picking flowers. Some of my choices were deemed "weeds!" and of course, were not allowed in the house, so I took them, in jars, to my room upstairs. I loved the Dock(Burdock) Weed, yellow buttercups, chamomile, yellow and purple mustard, willow branches, and fistfuls of clover. Mom loved to pick her own flowers, and in her late-years it was a beautiful daily ritual for her to wander around her yard and harvest her bounty. She did accuse me of stealing her jars, though. And yes, this is one of them! Thanks, Mom.
Okay: get ready for this next photo. It is painful to look upon. It shows straight-on the shape of the lawn in the back yard, with little hope of recovery in the near future. Note to self: figure out something! This is the tag-team for fabulous four-legged hole-digging. Could we make money with these two? Harness this dedication and intelligence for The Greater Good?
Luna loves to bury Emerson. She holds him down, in the hole, with a choke-hold on his neck. If I manage to ever get a photo of this I will share. His expression is one of toothy delight, wide grin, no growls because they get in trouble for growling (don't ask), his feet flailing in the spring air: Heaven on Earth.
See? No remorse: These are the bad good dog faces. The Possible is always possible.
"the possible's slow fuse..." This morning I am enchanted with this line. The Orioles are all here now, the male is piggy with his feeder, hissing and pecking the beautiful female, who hangs upside down from the wire-scroll hanger, unconcerned with his peckish ways. Patience, my dear, The Possible will reveal itself in a most wondrous way, the flamboyant male will weave the nest with her.
The weather pummeled the Iris. I felt concern that their unfurling would be hampered from all the rain. Yet, each day a new colored one reveals itself.
Cucumbers and Prayers
All day long
The earth shouts
Such an exuberant gee,
It starts throwing
As if God were passing by in a parade encouraging
by looking so beautiful---
That a whole avalanche of mania swoops in!
I like this idea of throwing things at God,
And especially---His making us rowdy!
Thus, as soon as Hafiz is out of bed
I start stuffing large sacks
With old shoes, cucumbers,
For the upcoming
And who knows
Yes. Let us plant cucumbers, possibles, prayers. Let us breathe in this special spring day. Let us breathe out love and healing. Let us celebrate!