My geraniums have finally bit the dust.
I should have brought them in last night. Apparently -7 is too cold.
Inside, my orange tulips are feeling the pressure and making up for the loss by blooming extra big today.
I'm 37 years old and finally getting wise.
I used to hope boys would buy me flowers. Now, I grab the jar of coins collected from the week and buy my own. Some of those coins are
Christophe's, too, so I yell, "Thanks for the flowers!" as I walk by the
butcher shop with my bouquet. He yells back, "You're welcome, darling!" I
yell back, "Good English!"
Sometimes happiness wells so fully at the sight of my flowers that I actually get flustered. As if I don't know what to do with this new emotion of elation. It's a new muscle I'm strengthening. To be strong enough to carry a boatload of bliss. I'm strong with fatigue, overwhelm, pain, grief, hopelessness and sorrow. I've had plenty practice at those. But happiness? Oh, this is new. At times, here in Paris, bliss strikes me so fully that I fear my chest will expand outside of the bounds of my skin. That my body will not actually be able to handle it. That I'll explode.
So I swallow hard to reign it in.
I'm getting there. It's a process to stay fully present when the moment happens.
And when those flower moments butt up against other beautiful moments, even swallowing hard doesn't work. Today for instance, there was a letter in the mailbox for me. I saw that it was there when I zipped out to buy oranges but I left it there. I knew that my lovely man would check the mail at lunch and bring the letter to me.
The look on his face as I squeal in delight when he hands me the letter is worth the wait.
Bliss. Uncontainable bliss.