Rain is coming. Rolls of heavy clouds are lined up for days, the forecast says. I couldn't help but note an tiny, unexpected thrill at this news. Spring rain! For soaking the soil, for drumming the roof, for sending robins for worms. For sending me to indoor tasks that so easily get pushed aside when the sky is colored blue.
But first, I raced with my shovel to get the last of the garden beds turned, that chocolate-black soil opened wide for a good long drink. Eight beds, lined up like cots in a bunkroom, ready then, waiting for drops to fall. Lawns mowed, grass raked, everything ready.
It was late evening, near dark under sodden, ink-stained clouds, when I realized there was one thing more. Before the rains came, one thing to find. Blooms. Blooms for inside when the rain is incessantly plinking the tin. For when the soaking spring needs reminding that, though it may be here for days, it's not the only show in town. Not thirty minutes later, from the yard of an old log cabin, came a bundle of pale pink blooms. Amassed in the heavy glass vase, I placed them front and center, there on the inside.
We might often wonder at this simple life: How does one do it? Where does one begin? What makes for that longed-for sense of calm and intention and well-being? Do I start with the clutter? Or with the plastic in my cupboards? Or maybe my wardrobe? Our minds become fraught, trying to figure it out. Maybe it's the house that's all wrong. Wrong size, wrong shape. Maybe it's...
Stop, loves, take a deep breath. Wherever you are, whatever your home, whatever your intention, begin here: Blooms on the table.