The week is vanishing which means my time is beginning to feel squeezed.  We have new guests arriving in less than two days and I’ve put off painting the bedroom and closet doors because sometimes there are more important things to do: like strolling through a nursery with my sweet friend or picking up two little grandsons so my daughter can rest.  Doing these things mean the world to me but the painting won’t get done on its own.  It’s on the list for tomorrow.  But for tonight, I have to linger here.

I imagine this to be a tale I am in.

Perhaps the characters in this story have gone to lunch or a delivery of flowers has called them away.  Entering, even though it may not be okay, I walk around the broom, my eye catching the sunlight reflecting off the variegated plant in front of the strikingly tall and colorful round blue planter.

I must stop to take it all in.

The chipping paint on the turquoise lawn chair further down, the wooden seat attached to the corrugated metal stand next to me, that garden hose piled on top of itself, all these things and more are almost pushing me forward and I cannot stand still anymore.  I begin to skip towards the basket of flowers that hang to the floor, captivated by rusty curls of iron holding it, the rust adding dimension and beauty. There are several pieces of metal art, ceramic pots on top of each other and ones filled with plants.

I am undone.

This is my happy place.  The collision of color, light and potential all sitting on top of a wood floor that creaks with each step takes my breath away. Halfway through the hall, I spy round pots, concrete pots, some square ones with triangular patterns, two or three on a shelf all leading my eyes to the hanging metal baskets with nothing inside.

I wonder about these pots. Will someone purchase them or will they just sit here, pieces of art filling this walkway?

The wood beams and exposed rafters are so warm, inviting me to linger and soak in the sun beaming down on me.  Were I to pick up that broom, I could pretend I worked here, sweeping away a few fallen leaves that didn’t make it through the frosty cold that brought snow in December.  This is all too much and I postulate whether I would be a good worker in a nursery because my interests would be divided between the work I was required to do and my passion to examine the smallest detail in a leaf or be drawn to the scientific name for a fern or cyclamen.

It’s time to leave and I turn back to see my friend intently checking the citrus bushes in search of an orange tree.  I catch up with her and snap pictures of more flowers as we head out. 

It’s been a delightful field trip.

My story  over, I wonder if maybe a broom laying against a bucket or a messy situation might become a tale of delight because we make it something more by looking deeper.

Until next time…

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