A weed is but an unloved flower”
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, American author and poet
How did I get here? Ever ask yourself that question? Like when you’re driving somewhere and you make it to your destination, but have no recollection as to how you arrived?
As I lay crumpled in my flower garden, looking up at the cone flowers, and the bees who ignored my plight, I wondered: how did I get here?
Blame it on the heat and humidity, which make all of us delirious. Lack of sleep, lack of caffeine, too much stress—all of these things can make us question how we managed to dress ourselves for the day. And if you didn’t complete the process but stepped out anyway, join the club!
At least I was dressed this time. But when you’re covered in dirt and your body is contorted, does it matter what you’re wearing?
My wildflower garden has exploded. It is full of color and pollinating bees and butterflies; the goldfinches are thrilled with the buffet of seeds sprouting from the coreopsis, cosmos, and calendula.
However, the expansion has made it more challenging to navigate the garden to water it. Granted, wildflowers make maintenance easy because they don’t need constant watering. Most are native and are used to the crazy up and down temperatures, as well as the exorbitant amount of rain. It is only when it hasn’t rained for a few days that I like to sprinkle them with refreshment. It’s fortunate that I can hide behind my tall plants when I carefully maneuver my feet around the flowers to avoid stepping on them, as I twist into an arabesque to reach the end of the garden with the hose.
Until, like the other day, I lost my footing on the soil, resulting in my ungraceful dance that landed my foot in a flowerpot, my right arm and shoulder softening my fall onto my cosmos stalks and poppies, with my head narrowly missing the large decorative rock behind the sedum. Even if you paid me, I honestly could not reconstruct the process of how I ended up in that predicament.
A couple days later, my arm turned an unattractive green and purple. The bruise was the length of my lower arm, where it had bent between me and the dirt. My husband simply asked: “How come your bruises turn green and mine are red?” To which I replied: “Because I’m Vulcan.”
Live long, and prosper.
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