What a week.
All I did was swat at every need-it-now demand flying out of my cell phone and Inbox.
I awoke Saturday morning with a work hangover.
I pulled in the driveway on the return trip of my daily endorphin recharge ritual -- a 20 oz. Wawa hazelnut coffee and the newspaper - - just in time to catch a hummingbird kissing the lipstick red blossoms of a cardinal flower.
It hovered in mid-air on wings made invisible by their speed, a contradiction of motion and stillness.
Later, as I went about the patio, hose wand in hand to satisfy the unquenchable late–July thirst of container plantings, I observed a solitary droplet of water morph into a translucent glass bead in the cup of a newborn elephant ear. It was as delicate and perfectly round as anything a Steuben artisan could create. I lifted the leaf and watched with fascination as it rolled intact from side to side in defiance of its liquid temporariness.
Gardening is the pause button on the never-ending chase scene of my life called career and parenting (Have I mentioned I “commute” to my job in south Florida?).
These catch ‘em before they’re gone moments aren’t scheduled in Outlook Calendar. But the therapeutic value lasts for hours.
Yeah, that’s why I garden.
