My mom is passed. What I have are stories, stories stacked on top of each other: piled by my reading chair like a precarious coffee table, stories neatly categorized and displayed in albums, and stories typed and filed away as keepsake letters. Stories carry memories and connect us to each other like charms on a charm bracelet.
The sun doesn’t give a hoot how I feel! It rises and sets regardless if I notice it or not. Therefore, if I’m going to enjoy it, that is up to me.
Only occasionally do we see the beauty of what’s underneath the surface because in our Western Society, we expend so much energy on physical beauty, that we miss out on the low-lying gems.
Both my sons have inherited the gardening bug from me. Nevertheless, one in particular intersperses our conversations and texts with his storied gardening exploits or even seemingly failures. I receive pictures of: a truck load of compost and plants, a camellia bush showing out, and herbs gone amok. Sometimes it’s a picture of a barren corner accompanied by the question, “What do I put here?” I love these back-and-forth exchanges!
I am struck by the way the sun feels this afternoon, pressing the damp cold winter out of the greening grass and the stone pavers.
“Languages are epistemologies as well as human bridges.” (Elizabeth Alexander, The Light of the World)