May Day. Impossibly perfect here in Corvallis, with the clear sky, near-70 temperature, soft breeze. Quickly chases the months of drear and dread. Here's a part of my wondrous world today:
Our little apple trees, bursting with clusters of white-pink blossoms.
The barrels of tulips and pansies, crowds of flowers on the deck. Tulips all around, including the north terraces... reds, yellows, combinations.
A happy gathering of solomon's-seal stems, blossoms promised, looking as if they'd been bunched and washed and combed.
The over-wintered greens, the bluish kales, the rainbow chards.
The first of the rhodo blooms, impossible pinkish creations from tight buds, and the pair of jays assigned to protect this part of the garden. And the shock of thumb-sized asparagus stalks, promised as tomorrow's supper. And the last of the daffodils, remnants of a weeks-old civilization past its prime. And the grape vines, more promises, fat buds to become summer afternoon snacks.
And the delicate first strawberry blossoms, the ones I told Ruby about... how she'll have to get there before her brother. Ditto the blueberries.
And the reds and pinks of the new-growth roses. And the carpets of sky-blue lithadora encroaching on every path.
And the pots of mints, fair game for breakfast tea. And the hyperactive pair of towhees, tiny red-black chickens searching for the elusive treasures in our raised beds.
And the view... the bluish layers of hills-to-mountains, each promising a secret passage to the Pacific.
In that near view, our oaks, moss-laden and solid, again promising shade on our rare hot afternoons.
We do live in a paradise of sorts, a daily feast of beauty. My paradise includes the time to partake of that feast. And that is my May Day.
"Somehow, in the process of trying to deny that things are always changing, we lose our sense of the sacredness of life. We tend to forget that we are a part of the natural scheme of things." Pema Chodron