I
have discovered some rhythms to my life, like the blending of spice,
Cinnamon and thyme, cardamon and lime and all things that rhyme.
Harmonizing scents, broths that warm with bay, tea that tastes like
hay, flavor's rowdy play, it’s a brand-new day, come what may,
I’ll stay with this.
Ginger takes the lead, dill chips and chia seed, vanilla bean and peppermint leaves. Chili flakes on potato
cakes, onion rings and worthy things.
I’m all in.
December wind cools the already cold air. The morning walk is bundled and pulled inward, so unlike the early Autumn walks, the rolling up of sleeves, short skorts, and morning humidity heating me up and slowing me down just a little while ago. Today I choose the long, puffy coat with the generous hood. A pair of gloves are conveniently stuffed inside its pockets left there the year before. It's turtleneck-time and corduroy-rhyme. It's long socks for tall boots and scarfs pulled snug around the neck. The garden rows all needy and running wild in June now must wait. The sowing of seeds, the pulling of weeds pause to the season of cozy blankets and warming thoughts tossed around on soft chairs. It is time for the steaming cup of chamomile and lavender tea, a candle wafting fragrant scents into the air, the stove top boiling broth and herbs making the house a scrumptious, homey thing. I'm all in. Morning monotony be damned? It is this glorious sameness I crave. It is in these rhythms that I've found an understanding friend. I'm all in.
Creamy, tender skin is iridescent in morning light, plumped with
life, like it's been filled to its capacity with the morning dew. It is
the small hand of the Zinnia Princess, and she is out in her garden
again. She points a decisive finger at her first choice, a
voluptuous, hot pink bloom.
“Wower”, she
aptly calls it. I, and all the others in the garden are hushed and stunned by this
unexpected declaration. A light breeze jiggles the stems of the
congregation and gives the flowers a responsive shutter as they
receive the honor of their new name; “Wower”, indeed.
She reaches forward,
clutching a chosen stem and I, her most humble servant, cut it loose
from the plant with my pruning shears. She reaches again to fill her
other hand; there is more than enough. She picks a coral pink this
time, the perfect complement, a brilliant choice. The faint rippling of applause from the rosemary bush looses its fragrance with the sudden enthusiasm, and the aroma wafts into the air.
I carry her around the south side
where a red zinnia wower blooms scantily along the picket fence
painted a cedar color. Only three red blooms today. She will not pick any of these.
I, toting the
princess on my hip, step over the stone border and enter the garden.
I sit the princess down atop the mulch-covered ground and she drops
her stems while reaching her hands up to hold mine. She disappears between the tomato and the okra, needing some assistance
she is generously willing to take me along with her. It is a morning immersion, and she invites
me along into her exploration. She is young-wise and I can easily see she feels there is
much here to discover. I am intrigued.
Her pause pales the
importance of the ticking time in my head and the rush to get off
into the business of the day. Her slow and purposeful gaze into tomato tangles is unique
in these parts and I think I must imitate her if I possibly can.
I glance down into
the glossy pools of her dark eyes and find the stirring waters there. Now I realize I had at some point wandered away in pursuit of something else less worthy and less wonderful. My heart
lurches as two tears break free to race down my cheeks, and I feel the familiar, subtle stir in me once again. Wisdom hushes me, shutting me up
to hear. If I am willing, it will open me to see and to learn with this Zinnia Princess,
Princess of the Wowers. Like the Pool of Bethesda where the wounded and ailing rushed to moving waters for healing, she is sensitive to the effervescence all around us. She has just recently arrived from God's heart, and the glinting of His kingdom is still upon her though she is unaware. So, she has come to preside over this garden, insistent in its mystery, and with an infant's watchful eye.
Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.
I slow myself and I follow her
gaze flower to flower, and it becomes obvious to me why she has innocently insisted on a more expressive name, calling sorry eyes back to the WOW in a zinnia again. This is a most appropriate and sensible
response in a dulled world, dutifully looking into the small boxes ever in our hands. She leans a soft nose
straight into the brilliant color and sniffs it, pulling the subtle
scent wildly into herself, and blowing it rapidly out, almost violently she breaths
the scent in and out then turning her attention towards me, she points
the pollen covered stamen at my face and demands I do the same. So, I
do. And so, I yet will.
I
drove between water because smart and skilled men made a levee and
poured a road out on top. The sun showed through a sky stuffed with
gray clouds and hit the lake tinseling the water and making me cry.
The Lord touched my eyes with tinsel on water and gave me the word to
tell it today. He touches my heart with tinsel and water, and my life
is a wonder. I am distilled
in tinseled water, in the plucks of guitar strings and simpler
things. I’m distilled
in the wisps of wind and warmth of sun and those little
paddle-footed-waddlers
quacking along a grassy path. I’m preserved
in moonshine and fair things. I am
clarified
in
laughter, in the eyes of a caring friend, in voices and cat purrs, in walks on fallen leaves, and thoughts of higher things. I’m
distilled
under warm covers and preserved in gratefulness. I’m purified
in sun rays and sprinkling rain and baskets full of adjectives for
what I see. I’m refined
in vanilla peaches and love, in prayers at the table and on my soft couch. My shelf life has no care for I’m distilled in eternity.
