Certainly there were calls I could have made. Long conversations I may have needed to have. The moments could have been used differently, but, I chose to gather Larkspur seed.
For the second time in four days I found myself mesmerized as I gazed upon a mound of coral fire called Larkspur. Sprinkled about the blossoms a few dark, spent blooms had gone to seed. Tell tale ‘eyes’ had opened in the pod to reveal many seeds waiting inside.
The ones that were ready, I picked with bare hands, remembering that my grandmother had always put down Muslin cloth so that none of the seeds could be accidentally lost.
Accident and lost are two words with which I maintain disagreement. Nothing is ever lost, and there are no accidents. Changes maybe, and differences, maybe. But, nothing is new under our Sun, on this old, old world.
Gratefully awed at the profusion of possibility at my hands. Dried on a bit of paper towel, transferred to a labeled envelope, my hopes for tomorrow.
Abbey of Gratitude 