Spring morphed into Summer this past week. My vegetable garden and new flower bed are both thriving. So are the weeds. SIGH. Pulling weeds is hard on my back and knees.
We continue to shelter in place, going out for church (me) or to catch up on routine medical care (Beloved). The world outside has been hopeful–lower numbers of covid-19 deaths, people of all races and generations standing shoulder to shoulder to demand systemic changes we’ve needed my entire life—and less hopeful. Covid may be making its comeback sooner than expected. Violent and racist behavior crops up in hot spots nationwide. The issues are expanding and becoming more complex. Weeds! But, I cling to hope.
In the midst of fluctuating emotions I find pansies growing in the crack along my driveway up against the house. If a weed is a plant growing where it doesn’t belong these qualify. But they’ve reminded me of the strength of life and hope that push themselves forward in the broken places, the unlikely spots, if only I have the eyes to see it. Life may not be tidy, but life works. Sturdy little flowers, are pansies.
In the meantime, writing continues. As luck would have it last week was particularly productive. The Wayward Son is cruising to a conclusion; I hope to type The End by the end of this week. Wish me luck. But first, coffee.
