The windflowers, the anemone, the blood roots, the trout lilies, the violets, the trillium have all returned. Afternoon air is warm and sweet. My life proceeds faster than I can process sometimes.
For instance, my daughter is about to matriculate from elementary school. The preteen human animal is a truly strange specimen. No longer a child, but not a teenager. Smart enough to know any overly optimistic unicorn and rainbow parade you might have attempted constructing for them in younger years was bull shit. Bull shit rooted in love, but all the same. Smart enough to know that people suck, but also that people are kind and all we have, so we make the best of it. Smart enough to know that even those in charge, be it parents or teachers or the flipping president of the United States of America, will fail expectations. Smart enough to glean the world smacks of chaos.
I think it’s sort of funny how for the early years we construct such a funny sense of hierarchy. There is authority, there is order, there is right and wrong. There is action and consequence, there is justice and reason. I think this is probably necessary for growing humans of sound mind and heart. But then the illusion crumbles and the mid-sized humans begin to navigate something they weren’t entirely prepared for. I’ve been lamenting that a bit now and again. Or if I am honest, what I mean is that at the age of 40, I am also lamenting that for myself. These strange times are especially chaotic. Often unfathomable. Obscenely disillusionary. I’m afraid I’ve done all the wrong things in reaction. I’ve closed into myself. I’ve stopped relating to the mythical force I call the Universe. To avoid all the other discordant voices in the world, I’ve often stopped reaching out. I stopped writing here, which if it provided no other good, always helped me find my narrative for a bigger picture. I was fatigued and it was understandable. It’s just I noticed myself becoming irritable and bitter, and then one day I woke up and realized what I had really become was lonely. I am busy enough that it took awhile to notice. But I miss everyone. Even the people I talk to every day.
I don’t know if my mythical force called Universe exists the way I envision it. I’ve always sort of operated as if that is a minor detail that ultimately matters very little. But I said to it, Universe, I miss you. And I miss all the people. Later that day, a friend stopped in my office and brought me a fresh rhubarb cookie. Then my sisters invited me to a folk festival. Then one of my favorite friends in the world said, Friday we drink drinks. I like to consider this to be a magical Universal conversation composed of events, because a little magic sustains us, non? But independently, I realized once again that perspective is everything. So, this is me, reaching out. I’ve missed you. I love you. Tell me how you’ve been. Tell me of your adventures.
The thing about the white flowers that alight the forest floor is they are ephemerals. Fleeting. Like all things. I would regret time spent not adoring them.
The other thing about the white flowers is they are enduring. While they are fragile and appear short lived, they are eternal below ground. They are faithful. They return to themselves each year.