A nice thing…

The birds are were chirpolating. They were racketous and fluttertacious. The spring-to-summer everything newness was cross-species contagious and, between the sunfabulating and the rainbucketing, all was regenerational in spirit. I could hear it.

I heard it. I saw it. I smelled it, and yet… I was hearing, seeing, smelling from the outskirts (or the inskirts). I was watching and noting and appreciating the garden efforts of others, but was still stuck in my winter spirit, wearing black and watching the pageant unfold.

I walked through the garden center one day, determined to buy only things that I could commit to in that moment of purchase. A hanging flowering plant arrangement. I could water that. I could keep that alive. I also bought lobster compost and lime to take care of plants I’d already planted. I looked at but rejected the alyssum and the cilantro for their past failures to thrive under my care. I also rejected anything that would cause me to dig up a new bed.

As I walked through that gardener’s wonderland, I unearthed my worries that were preventing me from jumping into the joy of the burgeoning season, and I gave myself permission to just do whatever made me plant-happy and nothing more. Just then, I saw a six-pack of orangey-vibrant double begonias, and, just because they made me smile, I bought them.

A nice thing… finding and not forcing the happy thing, even just one thing, and letting it be enough.