“You’re the only girl I’ve seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald
I fell greatly in love with literature in college, near salivating over how words could be strung together in such a way that formed a caricature of yourself right there, written on the page by some stranger that knew you better than you knew yourself. Our secrets, our fleeting thoughts, our happiness. For me, stories are the common thread in the patchwork of people.
Wildflowers make you love in this way. Their tiny, spectacular details are a marvel. Their faces are bright and in bloom and blushing with all the attention. Yesterday, Chris and I took Timber and Derby (our failed-foster black lab – yes, we’re keeping her!) on our first hike of the season in the Bitterroot Mountains. We’ve been riding and hiking the Sapphires (Eastside mountain range) for weeks now because they are typically dryer open hillsides, populated with the ever fragrant sagebrush and sudden flicker of bluebirds. The Bitterroot drainage ditches are the narrow valleys in-between mountains where the runoff has begun, rushing the dense forest with the sound of moving water, the aftereffect of our long, hard winter.
Back at home, our apple trees have blossomed and our poplars are green as the grass. Our lone laying hen has befriended our younger chicks (finally!) and the baby chicks have recently moved into the coop. This is only our second spring in our home and after such a brutal winter it feels like a gift all over again.
And so our Derby, new member of the herd, will come home for good this week. She is back at the shelter to finish out her time in the stress test study, which breaks our hearts, but we’ve already readied her bed and I’m already wearing black hairs on my clothes. It’s the look of a fur-mama and it couldn’t be a better gift (or day) for such a blessing.
Happy Mother’s Day!