the little things

trellised jasmine

It's the little things that sustain me through more bad news, things like the free jasmine plant adopted from the former neighbor that will hopefully flourish against the west-facing garage wall beside our mailbox, scenting the walkway next spring with small white flowers; or quick-sent e-mails or texts from friends checking in; or the potted jalapeƱos produced by Portland's early-summer heat waves, actual red peppers being a rare garden event in this temperate-rainforest clime; or savoring a nourishing meal of broccoli quiche and smoked tomato bisque soup with salad and buttered baguette that my friend Sarah dropped off so kindly over the weekend; or how much the flowers in the garden grown mostly from inexpensive seed color the yard yellow, purple, pink, and red; or the gifted hydrangea and lilac bushes waiting to be transplanted in the backyard; or the animal bones and river stones collected from the Willamette riverbank and the moss clumps and dried leaves picked up from the sidewalk, fallen off a tree, all displayed on the shelving outside the front door.

The natural world is terrifying in its indifference and magnificent in its beauty and power of transformation, the continual cycling of matter and energy through the eons that a single human consciousness can witness just once for a fraction of an instant in geologic time.

gathered river rocks

potted marigolds, hot peppers, & squash

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