We've had the flu, and being inside has not improved our mood, even on nice days like today, chilly in the morning but sunny and warmer by afternoon...so warm that the sun coming around the porch windows is nearly hot. Even though I'm finally past the infection, my uncle is still dealing with its nether effects, his age making it more difficult to summon the energy to recover, and opening him up to all sorts of weird complications. It's tiresome to be sick and to be slow shaking it off. We think we are sturdier than such illnesses, that it's impossible for anything that ugly to happen to us that we can't beat. It leaves us feeling vulnerable, and seeming as if the world outside our windows is a different life than our inside cooped-up world, with no bridge between.
Except these flowers, in wonderful shades of purple, violet, scarlet and orange, which come in the door to remind us that after winter is spring, and with it the early blossoms we so look forward to in February...winter jasmine, quince, early bulbs, forsythia. Across the street, Cathy and Steve have planted a tree with bright orange tips; though small, its potential for cheering up the winter landscape is obvious.
A gift of flowers, whether the hothouse kind or the braver inhabitants of our yards, is the most welcome just now. They are as important to making our days healthier as were the many neighborly gifts of soups, fresh juice, and citrus (and just today a plush neck and body warmer, from my sister Ann, to ease end-of-the-day aches). Not only the gifts themselves, but also the many kind acts of giving warm us. Like Joseph's flowers, they are the symbol of regeneration we so crave.
lovely. To read and to feel. xo
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