I find a scrap piece of paper in my desk drawer with this quote scribbled on it: All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world. (E.B. White) I read it and my heart explodes… no, not explodes… rather, expands, opens very very wide, fluffs its feathers (our hearts are winged, are they not?). I quickly copy the words into my notebook of quotes, then give the words their own page in my journal, centered on the page with white space all around, two strips of washi tape top and bottom, my own tiny note scribbled in the bottom right-hand corner. I find myself turning back to that page in my journal. All that I ever hope to say is that I love the world. Could it be any simpler? I love you, world. The end. Which of course, is its own beginning.
I cut back the garden, or my wilding patch: a volunteer tomato plant, lemon balm, rosemary, thyme, cosmos, zinnias, two rose bushes. The rose bushes have officially survived the summer, I did not kill them as I feared I might. Even now, while the rest of the garden is beginning to sleep, there are a few buds on each bush. I whisper to them how lovely they are, thank them for not dying on me, praise their hardiness. On this cloudy autumn day, their soft yellow-peach-pink petals are dabs of paint, an impressionist blessing for my not-green-thumb-flower-loving self. I try, I do. At the very least, I always tell my plants that I love them.
One evening this week, I roast a chicken, toss arugula with mustard vinaigrette, boil gnocchi. My three are gathered in the kitchen long before dinner is ready, and it’s not that this never happens but it happens infrequently, especially on weeknights, so I feel the expanding heart thing again, the opening very very wide, the fluffing of my (winged) heart’s feathers. We play a game, my son clicking through the Worldle archive, each of us taking turns at guessing the name of impossibly shaped countries. I try, though not very hard, laughing at our guesses, cheering correct ones, excitedly jumping when a correct guess comes from me. My (winged) heart, my three, this game, our laughter, the kitchen. I light a candle, we sit at the table to eat. Could it be any simpler? I love my three, the end, which of course, is also a beginning.
It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses, we must plant more roses.
~ George Eliot ~
p.s. There are still spots for November’s writing circle, The Quiet Page. No writing experience needed! Read details and sign up here.
p.p.s. Registration is open for the mini holiday edition of Just Five Things. Details and registration right here!