I recognized the cycle. Next step in the march toward nature’s annual rebirth––trees bloomed along city streets. Pink redbuds competed with white crabapples, which tried to outdo purple magnolias.
Noticing the changes, I grew restless, and my reaction was just another part of the cycle, as familiar as a cliché. I anticipated the appearance of peonies in the yard, looked forward to the first bouquet of the season. In April, after a soaking rain, the scent of wet dirt rose from the ground. I shopped for gardening gloves, patio pots, and pruning sheers. Where’s the best deal on mulch? Don’t forget the cow poop and garden soil. (The soil God provided wasn’t good enough.)
Peonies bloomed in May. I set the anticipated bouquet in my bedroom, and then made my yearly pilgrimage to Larry’s Nursery. As soon as I stepped into the greenhouse, my body betrayed me. Among the begonias, a cough. A sniffle near the echinacea. My nose stopped up in the day lilies aisle. And then I sneezed. And sneezed. And sneezed. I had to leave, empty-handed. At home, in despair, I threw myself on the bed. The peony bouquet stuffed me up and caused my eyes to itch. I locked it away in a back bedroom.
Allergies. I didn’t have allergies last year, or the year before that, or … ever. Not fair. Not fair.
I’d prided myself on my powers of observation. When spring transformed the landscape, I watched and noted every detail. Silly girl.
Change is not what I observe. Change is what I am.
Praise God. Praise Krishna.
Off the Path
No Place I'd Call Home