|English lavender, new yellow pots|
|vintage yellow wool table runner|
|English lavender in yellow ceramic pot|
I keep feeling like we're speeding towards a global meltdown, while the driver isn't even watching the road but staring down at his phone (and in my mind, the driver is still most certainly a he), checking Facebook and laughing at videos like the mother in the Chewbacca mask. What's the point of going through all this hassle—multiple surgeries, multiple courses of antibiotics, multiple-upon-multiple appointments—for one fake boob to eventually sort-of match the real one if the planet is about to combust? These are the things I think about while staring out windows on the bus between library-book pages, heading to or from a job I lack passion for.
Or maybe it's just that the rain is back in Portland, the sun on vacation elsewhere, breaking records in India. Until the blue sky and sun return, I can gaze at the lavender newly planted in bright-yellow pots, at the new thyme flowering in the old white pot, waiting for the chive seeds to sprout, thinking about planting some mint, hanging a rain chain, and wondering whether we have room in the backyard for a few chickens. This is what hope looks like.
|new yellow planter pots|
[F]rom space, you can’t see borders. What you see is this lonely planet. Here we all are on it, so angry at one another. I wish more people could step back and see how small Earth is, and how reliant we are on one another.