Five years hence, I felt a swell of joy. Anticipation. Amplification.
Five weeks in, cessation.
Five weeks more, awareness.
Five weeks further, separation.
I gathered seeds that weekend, to memorialize.
I’ve sown them each memorial weekend since.
They, as their motive, didn’t take.
I still, mostly, don’t say.
I still, mostly, can’t stand.
So I still, mostly, let sway.
I think I’ve sown sunflower seeds seven different times over the past nine years. Only one of those was the first, but the seventh was another first – the first successful year.
And here we are.
Happy day to all of the mamas. The mamas of biology and the mamas of love. The mamas of circumstance and the mamas of the moment.
Let them call you a weed. You are none such as that. They may not see your beauty, your strength, your ingenuity. I do, little purple flower. I see it. I see you. Bloom your heart out how and where you bloom best. Never you mind that gardener.
The sweet corn has a tassel. The mystery tomatoes are not cherries. The yellow crook neck have tiny squash. The strawberries are in full fierce little force. There green beans are gearing up for a long season. The carrots won’t quit and the okra is gaining height. The melon has vines and the peppers have flowers. It’s been a long and lovely spring. Summer is starting.
We’ll see if weighing becomes a habit (doubtful) but here are 14 delicious ounces of mostly calima beans.
Sometimes we’re caught off guard and knocked flat.
Sometimes a storm is just what you need.
Sometimes you aren’t prepared for unprecedented growth.
Sometimes you are.
And sometimes, no matter how hard you fight it, passions persist.