At home...

We got back home past mid-night, to a half moon illuminated little white cottage, and went to sleep right away...

In the morning, when I stood in our all-windowed dinning-room and looked at the all-encompassing, sun-kissed glories outside, I just knew where my heart really belonged...

The vision of a garden dotted in red and pink against the shadowy, mysterious background of the woods beyond, revealed that the Knockout roses had bloomed again while in our absence...

And were now gracefully gifting us with a bountiful second blooming season.  

And over all this lovely concoction of roses and woods, mystery and awe and loveliness beyond my imagination, a dozen wispy, little white butterflies fluttered all around with abandon, as if whispering secrets of freedom and of little joys to flowers and trees...  How very wonderful, and beautiful and enthralling and green, and marvelous my little world then looked...   

A gift of a world waiting for me right in my backyard...

At the pond I fed the goldfish and went onto cutting some of the gladiolus that my father and I had planted two years ago on the farthest beds, to filled glamorous vases.  

...and gathered some spent petals as keepsakes and tokens of affection and remembrance.

Later, in the afternoon, the sky turned dark and heavy with moisture.  A huge crow dived down across the opening in the woods, its black wings shiny in the dimness.  The air began to feel hot and heavy.  I went inside, sat in my little spot by the northern window, and waited for the promise of a downpour to transpire.  But it never rained and, the garden, beckoning me outside again, took me by the hand over to where the blushing beds of pink hydrangea had been waiting for me, and my Felco pruners,  since the end of a glorious May.

I filled the house with glorious pinks...

I have never seen such gorgeous color in all my days.  It is as if Vincent van Gogh himself had raised his bright, colored spirit this way and painted his finest painting all down the flowered beds.  But then again, a mortal's hand can never execute anything as lovely, and pleasing in a delicate, gentle, and glorious way as the works of the Greatest Artist of all time.... for only You could, oh Father...

I am humbled and thankful for all the little things which, put together, constitute my life in a wider sense.  My heart subsist on its knees, and I am a little butterfly fluttering about God's flowing, merciful graces.

I won't think too much, or dwell too much on things I cannot change, for if I chose to think too much or too hard on the appalling events that are transpiring around our world, and especially in our country on these sad days of lost lives, my soul will wither like a flower past its seasons.  I'm choosing pretty images to dwell on... a spring garden erupting with blossoming ivory gardenias and dahlias the color of a dragon’s fire. Antique horse figurines. Strawberry stains on your lips. The smell of fresh grass rolling over sand dunes lining the edge of a trembling sea, blackberry and elderflower cake topped with dusty rose colored icing and lilac blossoms. Antique ballet slippers.  Scarlet colored bows made out of satin. The glowing heart of a soft fire. Whispering winter wind tickling iridescent snowflake covered glass. The Nutcracker...

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