Spring burst forth along Colorado's front range in a riot of prematurely hot days and a sudden profusion of flowers: trees heavy with blossoms, bulbs dripping in color, phlox unfolding a month ahead of schedule. It is intoxicating and glorious, but I can't experience that without a sliver of underlying anxiety. I feel unprepared for the headlong plunge into the fecundity of summer, like the whole earth is moving at a pace I can't match.
I am like a gear in an old-fashioned pocketwatch, tiny and fragile, being moved by my proximity and connection to all those around me. Small gifts are the lubrication that keep our machine from locking up. Kindness keeps me from overheating as the seconds tick faster.
Will has been overseas for work and a friend I met in my gypsy days but have not seen for years opened her home and welcomed him as she would have me, like an old friend.
My mother was my date to a friend's 65th birthday party this weekend. She greeted us and said to my mom, Your daughter is one of my favorite people on the planet.
The new babysitter goes above and beyond and I come home to a clean kitchen.
A gorgeous slab of lemon-fennel salmon arrived in my kitchen just before the afternoon party preparation got the best of me.
Hugs. Scalp massages. Cupcakes.
Small things that, in the words of Robert Brault, become the big things. These are the things that give me room to breathe, the things that make it safe to unfold the tender parts, the things that make it possible to embrace the noisy, crowded abundance of summer.