Sometimes I dream about being a flower grower or foral stylist like amy merrick or sarah, playing with botanicals all day, then finding my way home to a big, old, rambling farmhouse like elmwood or the farm at world's end with a bucket of the day's unwanted dahlias & honeysuckle, except of course there's not an inch of floral flair in these fingertips. My style is of the cut, trim, plonk in a vase variety. The high tempratures have receded, taking with it my heat induced crankiness & I'm starting to like October all over again because it means roses. Archetypal I'm aware, but hardy, throwing out beauty even in the most blistering heat of our January sun. Only the ruffled, soft blooms though, not the hard edged Mr.Lincoln types. We inherited a mix of both when we moved in. Deep red, pinks & my favourite, peachy yellows. I've instilled a sensibilty for fresh cut flowers in Zahra & now I have to sneek out before she wakes, or in the softness of the evenings while she lies awake wonderig why she can't still be outside playing, in order to have first choice & long stems. That girl has a feel for flowers, for plants, coming in with bits of this or that for a vase. The bits I ignore. Her arrangements have a wildness to them. Last night everything slowed. Matilda, the last living chook from our first, hand reared batch of chicks, died. I cried & time slowed. The breeze moved as if in slow motion & I could hear what it was saying, the last red Japanese quince blossom sang as William dug a hole in the half light. My brain always seems so full of stuff. I dropped a ball. Wasn't paying enough attention. I could've done more for her but I couldn't seem to find the space. Guilt & now trying self forgiveness. I struggle with that most of the time. I read that it only matters that your willing, the universe will sort out the how. So I go down to the garden, practicing my self forgiveness & cut roses & plonk some in a vase & gently place some on her grave. They'll wilt & curl but I find that beautiful too.
