Oh, sorry. Yall have no idea what I’m talking about.
Well, read the interview for goodness sake.
And Joan. She changed it up a little.
Darkness hangs low over my winter garden this morning, seeping into my flesh despite extra layers of flannel and wool. And even though yesterday’s rain is gone, mist weeps into my upturned face.
My heart is weighted down by the news of a dear friend drawing near to death. I whisper another prayer, a blessing in her direction, smile weakly remembering our last conversation, her hope for the new treatments, her plans for afterward, her delight that we shared a kind of quirky humor as well as open honesty.
And even now the garden speaks to me. Not of death and rebirth, but simply of being. The garden is what it is– no matter the season. And so is she, my dear friend. She is what she is, no matter the season.
I turn toward the light of my porch lamp and walk slowly back inside. ***
And this afternoon…
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