Fireflies

One of the benefits of living in this desert land is the occasional splendid weather even in mid-February.  It was 70 degrees today, and so Herself took the wee dogs for a twilight stroll.  Each has a small light clipped to his or her collar to ensure they are somewhat visible, and in the darkness, as they stopped to pee on every plant they passed, they resembled lightning bugs flitting from bush to bush.

Peridot Thumb

The beautiful orchid has not only not perished, but has practically thrived for the past eight and a half months.  In fact, it is growing a new shoot off of the stem, in preparation for flowering.  Huzzah!  Herself does not have a green thumb, 'tis true - but her thumb might nevertheless be a shade of peridot.

Things That Are Both Exciting and Terrifying

For the first time in fourteen years, Herself is driving a new vehicle; and for the very first time, ever, it is a vehicle which she helped select.  It is nice: easy to drive, economical, practical. And, if we might say so, pretty.  Herself would be a bit excited about the new car, were it not for the terror of something happening to the new car. Perhaps in time she'll relax and enjoy it.

Adieu, Abode

Herself said goodbye to Cherished Friend's house today.

The sale is imminent, and Herself is glad for Cherished Friend, knowing that he will have tidied up this particular loose end from his time here in this desert land.  Nevertheless, she still feels a bit wistful.

She checked the mail one last time to verify that the US Postal Service had processed the 'change address' form successfully. (It had; the only mail was the generic midweek fliers and a misdirected magazine.)  Then she affixed the key to a small file card on which she'd written which mailbox is the correct one, and went into the house to put the key on the counter for the new owners.

In the silence, Herself could recall perfectly the sound from the filter on the fish tank that Cherished Friend once had.  Herself would feed the fish on occasion when he was away, and it was very soothing to watch the wee fishes flit to and fro while the filter bubbled soothingly in the dark quiet house.

She walked softly through the empty house, according it the respect it deserved for being Cherished Friend's home for so long. She only peeked into the rooms that had been his private domains -- his office and his bedroom -- for it seemed as though it would be an invasion of his privacy to set foot therein, even now. She paused for a bit in the kitchen, remembering the rich color of the wood of the bar and the table and chairs, and the conversations she and Cherished Friend had had standing there.  Finally, she laid a hand on the walls of the entryway for a moment; and then exited, carefully locked the door behind her.

Thank you, house, for being our Cherished Friend's personal sanctuary.  We are grateful.

Paper Flowers

Recently, Herself and Beloved Husband attended the celebration of the wedding of a friend.  It was a lavish affair.  The most noteworthy aspect of the venue, Herself thought, was the intricate paper flower archway at the entrance.  It was incredibly beautiful, even more than if it had been wrought of organic flowers.  Herself would have liked to touch it.  Instead, she contented herself with a photo.

A glorious work of art, it was.

Lap Dogs

We pause our current Facebook diatribes about vaccinations and measles (which we shall discuss on another day), to bring you the soothing sight of the wee little dogs tolerating one another's proximity in Herself's lap.  Ahhh.

White Noise

You’d think that silence would be peaceful. but really, it’s painful. 
― David Levithan, Will Grayson, Will Grayson

Sometimes, silence is lovely. The quiet of sitting together under the trees and the stars, with naught but an occasional rustle of leaves or crackle from the campfire interjecting occasionally into the unspoken conversation. Or the quiet of working alone in the kitchen, as the clouds creep in and the smallest patter of raindrops mingles with the scent of cookies in the oven. Or the mountaintop, with just the wind whispering. 

Other times, silence is arduous. The gap in socially-required small talk when one does not know what next topic to introduce. Or the hesitation in a sentence when there is a hitch in one's voice, and one must wait to compose oneself.  Or the pause after one gingerly reveals one's worries or fears or sadness, and then waits, hoping that the listener will deliver a word of consolation to ease the heartache. 

There are times that without assistance from another, only the silence speaks -- yet we do not know what the silence says. And as the silence speaks longer, it begins to shout, and we want to cover our ears and run away, because it is unbearable even (and especially) when we do not understand what it is saying. 

Speak to us gently, Silence, so that we may comprehend.

Picture copyright 2014, 2015, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude