The garlands woven

And then there are days like this, when good works spills from the fingers like water, and good counsel and cheer are found in the most unlikely places. A storm threatens to open up, but the free air it brings is worth any worry, and I walk here and there in the green grass with arms swinging.
I’m as tall as sunflowers today, and as fragile as the few pole beans that made it through the weeds. I try to remember what it means to be a leader, but slip erstwhile into reveries of a flowered fantasy, where all is simple, solemn and pretty. Here’s pansy for thoughts, a white chrysanthemum for Truth, dandelion for a rustic oracle, yew for sorrow, eglantine for poetry, water willow for freedom, magnolia for a love of nature paired with the yellow violet for my rural happiness. A diverse bouquet I offer out, while crowned with lupines for imagination. And yet I hold back two small blooms; a sprig each of Maythen, which the Normans renamed Chamomile, and of Marigold, for the changing tides of energy in adversity and despair.

Ending episodes of pain is like waking up. New eyes see what has been forgotten in the dreaming, and a newly freed mind spins into hurried work to amend the lax. Shame can lead unfortunately to wounded pride when others take notice of you have not, and not wanting to admit the real reason for the disappearance, I scramble about, half wanting to tear up, and make right in bursts of morning sunlight that which has been revealed to be missing. Renewed joy and freedom all too quickly sucked away with the startling obligations of the material world. The grass is still green, though, and the few hours I may pass in search of myself are in the end well spent, even if they feel stolen at the time.