august 2015. in my mother's garden . . . the subtleties abound at this time of year. her flowers are almost done, the ferns are past their emerald effulgence, and yet there are gentle reminders to slow down, even to stop. somewhat like those that my mother brings to play when we are together.
she is old enough (and certainly wise and rich in life's passages enough) to be able to suggest that "it doesn't matter", with the sort of gentle authority that bears witness to a deep experiencing of all - all that life has to offer . . . .
2 days ago