As soon as my feet were up--sunlight's final shaft beneath westward cloud cover turning the backs of my hands peachy--as soon as I settled well into the recliner, and Westley groomed his tummy before sitting straight and still, closing eyes, gradually bowing in aged feline slumber, I reflected on many things.
The turn of June into real summer, so welcome though by natural habit and tilt of globe it already begins to wane. The flow of traffic on my two 9-5 sojourns each week, where I feel an interloper yet a satisfied one (and nobody takes my favorite parking space). The wings of bees as our daytime flowers coax every drop of their wee strength, leaving some to slumber overnight on couches of lomatiums (not so unlike the books calling to me at work, 16 hours' motion on feet that crave my recliner when my two days are done).
Each evening as bees and butterflies clock out, our nighttime flowers open. Their habits I call mystical, simply because I never saw such unusual concerts until they began chanting off the back step, pulling me from my recliner into dusky exploration.
First, the showy tarweed takes its cue from that Star Trek episode where people from another world moved swiftly as insects, only our tarweed blossoms play the human role in this nightly episode, each tightly-closed character opening at a rate you can't wait for (at least, not I). They are yellow, some with an orange ring. By morning their faces all smile, some slowly turning back into unnoticed buds as the sun's rays touch them.
Next to find motion are the lemony evening primroses, a variety James planted for me to enjoy at the window doing dishes. I usually postpone dishes for their performance, however, since the mature, elongated buds, having plumped and prepared themselves all day, open in a syncopated rhythm. Each becomes a blossom in moments, an oily-scented centerpiece for ambling moths, a beautiful gesture of humility, which shines in the morning even beginning to droop, to allow its sisters their turn at this present day's completion.
Like flowers, like seasons, our lives certainly are ever changing. The days' rituals open onto unexpected vistas sometimes. One morning an email told me of this year's second essay's acceptance. This one--about my mom and me in gentle conflict, facing things we can't control but wish to--will be published in late fall or early winter.
Not unexpectedly I ponder stitching my writings together, completing a publishable collection. Maybe I'm building the soil for such a planting, for essays blossoming, waxing and waning, to be partaken of day and night.
The turn of June into real summer, so welcome though by natural habit and tilt of globe it already begins to wane. The flow of traffic on my two 9-5 sojourns each week, where I feel an interloper yet a satisfied one (and nobody takes my favorite parking space). The wings of bees as our daytime flowers coax every drop of their wee strength, leaving some to slumber overnight on couches of lomatiums (not so unlike the books calling to me at work, 16 hours' motion on feet that crave my recliner when my two days are done).
Each evening as bees and butterflies clock out, our nighttime flowers open. Their habits I call mystical, simply because I never saw such unusual concerts until they began chanting off the back step, pulling me from my recliner into dusky exploration.
First, the showy tarweed takes its cue from that Star Trek episode where people from another world moved swiftly as insects, only our tarweed blossoms play the human role in this nightly episode, each tightly-closed character opening at a rate you can't wait for (at least, not I). They are yellow, some with an orange ring. By morning their faces all smile, some slowly turning back into unnoticed buds as the sun's rays touch them.
Next to find motion are the lemony evening primroses, a variety James planted for me to enjoy at the window doing dishes. I usually postpone dishes for their performance, however, since the mature, elongated buds, having plumped and prepared themselves all day, open in a syncopated rhythm. Each becomes a blossom in moments, an oily-scented centerpiece for ambling moths, a beautiful gesture of humility, which shines in the morning even beginning to droop, to allow its sisters their turn at this present day's completion.
Like flowers, like seasons, our lives certainly are ever changing. The days' rituals open onto unexpected vistas sometimes. One morning an email told me of this year's second essay's acceptance. This one--about my mom and me in gentle conflict, facing things we can't control but wish to--will be published in late fall or early winter.
Not unexpectedly I ponder stitching my writings together, completing a publishable collection. Maybe I'm building the soil for such a planting, for essays blossoming, waxing and waning, to be partaken of day and night.
