This page features essays and explorations devoted to noticing, savoring, celebrating, and contemplating the meaning of the small stuff--the fleeting joys and tiny moments of beauty or insight of which some of the very best, most memorable, and richest aspects of life are spun.
In their scent is every thrilling first kiss remembered and yet to come, every whispered promise under the stars, every fat book devoured in their shade or amidst the stirring of their heart shaped leaves
I settle onto a bench on my covered front porch on a rainy morning–mug of fresh coffee in hand, loyal old dog sniffing and rolling in the wet and vibrantly green spring grass–to survey my small but ever changing world once more.
Full blown lilacs curve over the edge of the garden, lush and dripping. It is probably unwise to love lilacs so passionately. After all, their blooms are short-lived, they get leggy very quickly, and they can be fussy about pruning, but love them I do. Besides this one at the corner of the front garden, I have lilacs of many colors–pink, white, deep plum, classic light purple–running down the property line at each side of the back yard. I planted them years ago, when I claimed this place as my family’s safe and beautiful bit of land. They are, for me, perhaps more than any other plant, symbolic of home. For a week or so every spring, they all flower at once, and their sweet, old-fashioned scent drifts in, subtly and tantalizingly, at every open window.
As a child, I would always cut bouquets of lilacs to bring indoors. I can even remember the crazed green glass pitcher I would arrange them in, and how their nodding, trailing heaviness touched something in me, even then. Cut, they fade rapidly, but this is never a bar. I still gather them almost daily during their brief flowering, still prefer them in a green glass vase, still experience their fleeting beauty as a sweet but necessary ache. They are, somehow, always the first promise of summer. In their scent is every thrilling first kiss remembered and yet to come, every whispered promise under the stars, every fat book devoured in their shade or amidst the stirring of their heart shaped leaves. They are nostalgia and possibility. Common but transcendent.
When the flower heads fade to brown, the pruning begins. Deadheading and selectively cutting back woody branches with few leaves is the work of a few days and several smoky fires–a great deal of effort to put into a theoretical future of lovely but evanescent flowers in springs hence, but it is always a welcome labor of love, and completely unnoticed. Ah, yes, there goes mom, puttering about the yard again, seemingly to no real purpose. She will come back in a few ticks after dusk, arms scratched and hair smelling of smoke. Nobody knows exactly why, but it seems to have something to do with her tree hugging, vaguely witchy, eternally tomboyish ways.
But I know that when my children catch the scent of lilacs in the air, even many years from now, they will think of home, and perhaps that is enough.
A Monday story. Guess I'll call it "Finding the Tiny Key."
So, over the weekend, we had a few nice days, which had me out clearing branches and twigs from the yard, and burning them in the fire pit.
Had a cheery little blaze going, but some of the wood was still a bit damp, so I was crouching down to tuck in a few more pieces of fat wood, when I spied a teeny tiny key on the ledge of the pit.
Immediately charmed. Why were the heavens sending me perfect little keys, now? What secret thing was I meant to unlock?
Immediately charmed. Where did this cute little old-fashioned key come from? What kind of nifty little container or cunningly small pixie's diary might it open? Why were the heavens sending me perfect little keys, now? What secret thing was I meant to unlock?
Pondered these things, made the blaze a bit bigger, then tucked the key into the back pocket of my jeans, with all the other finds collected so far that day, like the true tomboy I am and will always be.
Happened upon it later, among the battered pennies and stray scraps of paper, during the pocket emptying ritual, and suddenly realized that this charming little key had broken free of the very bracelet I was still wearing.
It occurred to me how very often the keys we need to open the way to life's many small joys are actually on or about our persons at any given moment. It's all in whether we stop to notice things, and how we choose to see them when we do. Broken bracelet, or pathway to magical realms? Always a choice.
Flashes of Something
String of Pearls