I cut as many blooms as I could on Saturday, since September is starting out with temperatures in the 90s.  The second flush of lisianthus and abundance of asters delighted me yet again.  The seed-grown dahlias are perfect misfits, with tangled petals and irregular colors so unlike the symmetrical cosmos and lisianthus.  I think gardeners must love surprises – and a tentative hope for the beautiful unknown is certainly one of the greatest treasures I’ve found in the dirt.

It was my dad’s birthday on Friday.  He would have been 99.  So often, Marv could not set aside the flaws that troubled him about me – my worry, my insecurity, my hope for some kind of achievement.  His disapproval fixed those traits like lead in my boots until very recently, now that it is truly too late for that liberation to change anything but my own self-sovereignty.

But it meant everything to me when he recognized the energy of line and form on a large canvas I was working on for a figure painting class, when I went back to school at 30 to finish my degree.

“Her knee’s not quite right,”  I said.  He thought for a moment, taking in the uncensored strokes of green and crimson that defined the reclining model, viewed from the back.  “Yes,” he carefully agreed. “But it doesn’t matter.  The gesture is there.  That’s what counts.”