
I'm so into flowers at the moment, it's embarassing. I'd do an Elton John and have fresh bouquets delivered for every room in the house every week if I had an Elton John sort of budget. Never mind, I think that my $5 bunch of tulips from the supermarket thrill me every bit as much as his quadrillion specialised arrangements thrill him. Look at how the soft petals fold shyly over one another, the way the subtle shades of pink gently bleed their way from top to bottom. It leaves me in awe. See? Embarassing.
I've learned a new word this week: quotidian. It means "everyday: found in the ordinary course of events." The more I give up on the grand and the global and look toward the quotidian instead, the more satisfied I become. I have a nagging feeling that this is where the best things, the important things, reside. I can't quite articulate what I mean by this just yet, and I suspect it is going to take me a lifetime to try, but I'm good with that.
Eilidh is home again from school today. I'm starting to resent this long running saga of minor illnesses and the restriction of freedom it brings. On any other day I would be glad of the chance to forgo pressing errands and be still for a few hours, but the moment the choice is removed I decide there is nothing more I'd rather do than visit the gym, or grocery shop, or return my (not overdue yet! miracle!) library books.
I wrote this poem down in my notebook a few weeks ago especially for you because I thought you would like it. You may have read it already. It's "August in Waterton, Alberta", by Bill Holm.
Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
in doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful.
Love that.
M.