There is a tiny white butterfly flitting between the yellow coneflowers that have sprung miraculously high this lush green summer. A few bees and now two more of its own kind join the butterfly. A flash of red turns out to be the resident cardinal, he of the large song repertoire, singing from the pine tree across the road. The competing red crocosmia are almost finished blooming. I wonder if there will be any more hummingbirds this summer.
Resolve: always to live in places where I am encouraged to spend a good part of each day outdoors.
Mystery: there is an un-opened geode nearby – not a pretty rock on its outside, yet somehow all the more intriguing because its contents are hidden. Knowing about the amethyst crystals inside is somehow even more magical than seeing them.
Blessing: I crack open instead the memory of an earlier time. I am in the gently swinging hammock strung between two giant oak trees on my grandparents’ hillside, looking up into the branches above me. I study the leaves dancing, hear insects singing, savor the subtle and distinctive scents of iris blooms, taste the sweet stickiness of a slice of watermelon. Numerous large, multi-colored butterflies feast on the blooms of the gardens above and below. The voices of nearby grown-ups rocking in their chairs provide gentle percussion to the symphony of my childhood.
