Flu is such a short word. Flu. Small. Simple.
Influenza sounding more flora. More weighty. Simply more.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been so under the weather. I lost days to it before losing track of what day it was.
The rain timed itself as keenly as it can this time of year.
Which did nothing to mature the palates of my pests from pea shoots and brassicae greens toward henbit or this star-shaped mystery.
Perhaps next year.
Rainbows have hit a new level of glory in our home.
First we had the usual childhood awe, fascination, and adoration of them. Like you do.
Then June came round and for some unknown (to me) reason, this was the year in which much of corporate America felt free, finally, to celebrate Pride month. This added to the rainbow fandom in my house and lead to heartening conversations. When asked by a wee one why there were suddenly rainbows everywhere, I found the answer coming from my mouth before trying to find age-appropriate words: people have decided that rainbows are a way to celebrate love – and that love between any person and any other person is worth being happy about.
From the mouths of babes: then why aren’t there this many rainbows every day? I want to open a year round shop called, “Every Rainbow Every Day” because every love is ok every day.
And so in our house, we celebrate rainbows every day, in every way. Last night’s rainbow?
Yellow pear tomatoes, sun gold tomatoes, black cherry tomatoes, and pink Arkansas traveler tomatoes from the garden with a white onion and green cilantro.
I likely could have pulled this cilantro when it bolted.
And probably should have when the flowers were spent and the plant limp and scraggly.
But, I thought, what about the coriander seeds?
And so I waited.
The tribe of lady bugs are ever present, and likely ever grateful that wait I did.
I hadn’t seen the stars in untold time.
My screen painted in peanut butter. I can’t tell. Is that in focus?
“That’s pokey, mama. Don’t touch it. You’ll get hurt.”
Ah, no, bug. It only looks pokey. Touch it. It’s ok.
“That’s a weed, mama?”
No, honey. That’s corn.
“That’s not corn, mama. That’s grass.”
“I planted beads, mama! Patios and I planted lots of beads for you for them to grow.”
“Those aren’t my ‘matoes, mama. My ‘ ‘matoes are at school.”
“I want to take pictures, mama.”
Sometime when I wasn’t looking this wee little blog acquired more than fifty followers.
I’d like to get to know you quiet ones a little better (and you not so quiet ones even more!) SO how about sharing as much or as little as you like in the comments here?
If a prompt will help you, let’s see…
Robots or ninjas?
Sandwich or salad?
Garden or cook?
And for fun, here’s a happy Buddha perched precariously by two careful little hands among the cilantro-hopefully-turning-coriander.
(If you’re looking for the cute baby butt, it has been cropped out for future-older-kiddo privacy concerns.)
“Hope you don’t feel like I think you’re doing nothing. You’re doing important work.”
Exactly what I needed to hear today.
I find myself with conscious gratitude surfacing more and more as bed rest continues. Is it the slowing down that allows room for it to grow? Is it the perspective shift front and center bringing gratitude into focus more clearly?
I’m grateful for mother daughter strawberry picnics on blankets with airplanes flying overhead.
I’m thankful for an over-extended partner extending himself even further to keep us all going, garden included.
I’m grateful for our small village who wash dishes or do “splash splash” (bath time) or just sit and talk politics and nonsense with me.
I’m grateful for fresh muffins made while I sleep in and for the financial ability to stomach a pretty decent property tax hike.
I’m grateful for “smoo” (smooth) and “buhpee” (bumpy) pebbles, and the daughter that carries them to my pillow and blanket fort to tell me about them.
And I’m grateful that for another day, our little Blueberry is still growing safe and sound in my belly.