the end is always
The morning is still, so still I can hear grasshoppers buzz and crickets walk. Okay, of course I can’t really hear them walk, but you know what I mean.
Dew has covered everything during the night, there is no place to sit in my garden that isn’t wet, and so I stand, watching a pink sky fade into the grey of rain’s promise. A promise that has been made again and again this year, and broken just as many times.
And still, my garden grows, flowers being stubborn even in the worst of times. They have a job to do and they will do it, as long as there is an inch of life left in them. I have to say, I admire their spirit.
On days like this, I want to be the sky that embraces them, the soil that feeds them, the light that brings them hope.
Actually, on days like these, I want to be one of them, reaching, stretching, working to make the world a better place. Fulfilling a purpose, cycling through the inevitable cycle, breathing and moving, waiting and hoping. Drooping in the heat of the sun, and finding new strength during warm dark nights.
And then facing sunrise with an upturned face and blind optimism.
This past week, in my whirlwind of discarding, I found a book that I had started writing years ago. As in, 20-some years ago. I had completely forgotten about it. I’m not sure why or how I had so easily let its existence fall from my mind. It seems like you should remember something like that.
I had titled it Girl with No Flowers.
I haven’t had time yet to read through it, but I will. From an entirely new perspective of who I am and what I am doing here.
Because these days, I most definitely have flowers.
And flowers always grow.