Flowers on Sunday in Blue

Well, this blue was just a loveliness I couldn’t pass up – even though I am trying to cut back a little on flowers so I can get some other things I need.

I haven’t written as much about my ups and downs here lately. I’m not sure why.  I certainly still have them.  One night last week, I drove past a particularly steadfast and cozy house, with a single, electric candle shining each window.  In an instant, I burst into tears.  Its unattainable durability suddenly embodied all the ways I have never grown up, or managed to fill any capacity larger than barely covering rent and food and, it must be admitted, flowers.  I have plenty of regret to keep me company, any time.

And I spend a lot of time in music that absorbs and transmutes dilemmas that can’t be resolved with only words.  Wrapped in Johnny Hartmann’s incomparable voice – It Was Almost Like a Song.  Drive Fast (The Stuntman) – the same prayer Bruce has been writing for 40 years.  Keep me in your heart.

But the flowers themselves are medicine.  The oceans of shadow and color in each miniature bell or feather-light petal, the air filled with their green scent and respiration.  Spending some time, some where, with just what is beautiful.  There is so much hope in that.

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