I had one of those chaotic, frenzied days recently. Nothing went right, got stuck in some kind of snag everywhere I went, things were out of stock, traffic was slow or stopped, drivers cutting in and out, turning suddenly with no indicator, cyclists everywhere. More frustrations for a single day than most. So I *finally* get home, unload stuff, lug it all inside, put it away. Remembered I needed to water the seedlings and flowerbeds. After I watered everything I looked at the foxglove with their tall, noddiing flower stems, daylilies pushing forth new buds, yarrow with its soon-to-be crimson flower heads, the Russian sage about to burst forth with bright blue bloom spikes, meadow rue, rose-of-sharon, four o’clocks, coreopsis, echinacea and so many others all waiting their turn to proudly display their lovely flowers.
Every year these beauties put out their showy and lovely display. They are pollinated, their flowers fade, and the birds feast on the seedheads through the winter. They don’t grow impatient waiting for the next rainfall, or envious because the butterfly weed bloomed before the daisies, or even angry that their flowers were not as plentiful or as bright as the year before.
They simply are.
Each year they have their season. The hyacinth, daffodil, iris, vitex, hibiscus, columbine. Each flower pushes up through the newly moistened earth, bringing forth new flower buds, they bloom. Their flowers gradually fade, bringing seeds for the next season. Tirelessly, effortlessly.
Why can’t I be more like that?