Browsing "flowers"

Beautiful

It is an impossibly gorgeous day today.
There’s copious sunshine, more than ample warmth, stuff growing and skies bluer than blue.
We haven’t had a spring here in New England for about 15 years.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude to be alive and enjoying a day off such as this.
Life is good . . .

M

Under the Bluebell Tree

There are several things I do know about my nocturnal comings and goings.
I dream in vivid color, for one thing.
Not just fundamental colors either.
My synapses and neurotransmitters treat me to a 4th of July palette of incredible and wondrous things.
My dreams are intensely complex, symbolically speaking, and I have yet to
understand what they truly mean.
I have also been known to get out of bed at 3:47AM to write down many a
soon-to-be elusive thought.
For the past ten years or so,
I have yet to have a dream that included both my mother and father.
It’s always been one or the other.
Given the circumstances surrounding the past chaotic decade,
that makes some logical sense, I guess.
As I said, my dreams have had ‘Ginny’ some nights and ‘Wally’ on the others.
Never together.
Until last night . . .

Off in the gossamer covered distance I could see them standing together,
holding hands . . .  smiling . . .  still.
They were underneath a tree of great age that was surrounded by what looked like
thousands of these tiny purple flowers.
I was physically moved (somehow) closer and I immediately noticed that they both looked happy,
healthy and totally at peace.
My mother was wearing a royal blue, knee length coat.
My father, a crisp white shirt and grey pleated trousers.
I smiled at the sight of the two of them, so obviously happy together and said,

“What are all these flowers?”

My mother smiled and said,

“They’re bluebells, Michael.  Each flower is a dream of ours that somehow came true.
No more sad, just more good.”

She turned (in slow motion) and kissed my father on the cheek.

They stood underneath the bluebell tree as small white flowers began falling like an unexpected springtime snowstorm.
They faded into the distance, transforming themselves into a Monet-like watercolour.
I faded into my dreamworld distance as well.

Before I went to bed last night, I had never heard of a flower called a ‘bluebell’.
I found it quite appropriate that the beautiful flower is not quite blue but purple – a color closely associated with Alzheimer’s Disease.
Thinking back on the dream I found it odd that my father never said a word,
though he appeared to be quite content.
Maybe the serenity I saw in his bright eyes told me all I needed to know.
I feel that their hearts have healed after all these godforsaken years apart.
Although mine is still on the mend,
I now believe that there are better days ahead for them
and for me . . .

*a little something from the wonders of the internet regarding ‘bluebells’

“Bluebells have long been symbolic of humility and gratitude. They are associated with constancy, gratitude and everlasting love. Bluebells are also closely linked to the realm of fairies and are sometimes referred to as “fairy thimbles.” To call fairies to a convention, the bluebells would be rung.

Bluebells are widely known as harebells in Scotland.
The name originated due to the hares that frequented the fields covered with harebells.
Some sources claim that witches turned themselves into hares to hide among the flowers.
Another name for bluebells is Dead Man’s bells.
This is due to the fact that fairies were believed to cast spells on those who dare to pick or damage the beautiful, delicate flowers. The people of Scotland are fond enough of the flower to continue this tradition
in the hopes of protecting the little flower.”

M

Two Flowers

flowers, gardens, Impatiens, odd, impossible

There are things that happen in our lives that occasionally defy space, time, gravity and logic.
While we experience these types of phenomena on a daily basis
we are sometimes too busy to see and embrace it.

There are two areas that require attention in my backyard: the lawn and the flowers.
I generally mow the lawn while Pamela tends to the flowers.
The flowerpots lining the yard and hanging from the shed looked especially good this year
but the garden looked like some fat lady sat on it.
The poor appearance of the garden had something to do with the amount of rainfall we had in June.
It rained 28 days out of 30 and the garden flowers suffered.
Pamela hates weeds and is constantly plucking them from the garden and the mulch that surrounds the outside of the yard. I tell you this so you understand that she has a keen awareness of all things growing in the backyard.

As I said before, all of the Cape Cod goodbyes were difficult but nothing could have prepared me for August 2nd,
the day Maureen and Mark left.
Pamela & Hannah went with me to the airport that afternoon.
The skies were greyslate over Boston and the tone in the truck was a bit somber
compared to the first drive to the Cape two very short weeks ago.

We somehow managed the ‘goodbyes’ and went our separate ways, more difficult than I ever could have imagined.
I was walking and wearing my Akubra, my arm around Pamela.
She took my arm and placed it over Hannah’s shoulder who was hurting more than Pamela.
This would be our hardest and saddest goodbye.
We got home and tried to keep busy straightening up and getting the house back in order for the work week ahead.
I poured a few fingers of Maker’s Mark and made Pamela a Rum Swizzle.
I was in the kitchen on my laptop when I heard Pamela yell from the backyard, “Hey Michael! Come here!”
She was standing by the enormous hostas (so big I call them Jimmy Hostas) staring at the ground.

“Look at those two flowers.”

“Yeah,” I said, in that low to high tone I use when questioning her.

“They weren’t there before. I swear. I’ve never seen them.”

“Then how did they get there,” I asked.

“They’re Impatiens. They need to be planted.”

“And you didn’t plant them?” I asked.

“Nope.”

She got teary and said, “It’s Maureen and Mark. They didn’t want to leave. They didn‘t.”

What do you say to a woman crying over two mysterious flowers
that have grown out of nowhere?
You don’t argue, for one thing.
You shake your head, agree, and give her a huge hug.
As a dear friend of mine once said of wonderful and mysterious things in this life, “Sometimes, it just is.”
I’m also thinking that those plant roots run quite deep.
Now that’s something I can definitely relate to . . .

Asshole

Denis Leary just kind of spoke my mind with this video.
The video and song are a bit old but are incredibly relevant even more so today.
My disillusionment with federal  and state government policies
have turned me into an asshole with a cause, I guess.
I can’t believe anymore in the total money-grubbing  douchebags that run this country.
As a citizen, I really want to quit.
But I can’t.
I am an asshole and I am damn proud of it.
Click on the picture above to see the classic ‘Leary’ video.
He smokes, drinks and swears and went to High School here in Worcester, Massachusetts.
He Rocks.

My Crimson Valentine

Without you, there would be no me
my skies would fall and the crescent moon
would cry tears of blue crystal into a distant
and deep crimson horizon
my own personal dusk . . .

Without you and me
there would be no us
and I am too in love with ‘us’ to ever let go
For me, the phrase ‘without you’ will never be an option . . .
Love you, Pamela
HVD

You

In about three weeks my wife and I will celebrate 25 years of marriage.
It just doesn’t make sense that I make a whole spectacle of it in one day, seeing we’ve been together and
so incredibly strong for 25 years.
These days, I’m truly amazed after reading the ‘legals’ in the newspaper with these assholes that get married for two weeks and then file for divorce.
Damn, it’s insane and I’m sorry, sometimes funny.
But what the hell were they thinking in the first place?
Either way, I’m devoting at least several posts to this incredible woman that understands me in a way no one in the entire world ever will, my wife, Pamela.
Yeah, these are going to be romantic and sentimental.
It’s just the way I am, folks.
Here’s to the one woman that still makes Mikey tick . . .

You

Here, in my heart
In my olde, melacholy soul
is the You I’ve always known

It’s in my darkest hours
that I find the way home
from the very light of You;
a serene beacon in this most sacred of harbours

With my spirit at the end of my tether
i cling to you like a rainbow clings to slices of sunlight;
this complicated prism of all that’s good in my life,
the colours of emotion, the extreme comfort in belonging . . .

It’s there in your heart
(I belong)
where my peacefully sleeping soul is forever safe
deep inside the You I will always know,
love always . . .

Climb

{for my 3 young ladies}

Go higher than you ever thought you could.
Climb the ladder of success, whatever that is for you.
Climb your way to the top.
Take as long as you need: no one is watching the clock (except maybe you).
Before you reach out to hold onto something, make certain it’s strong enough to support you.
Grit your teeth and scrape your knees and bleed and sweat.
If your mountain is simply to get through the day, then scale it.
When you get to the top, look back at what you’ve accomplished.
Now smile or holler or cry.
Before you head for the valley and the next mountain, remember the women who have gone before you and the ones who will follow your climb.

~Rachel Snyder

My Hannah

Tomorrow I will be spending a good portion of the day with my daughter(s) Hannah (and Jenna).
It’s Hannah’s 15th birthday and I’m fortunate enough to have the day off.
We’re going to see Batman in the early afternoon and having lunch at Moe’s afterwards.
Moe’s is one of her favorite places.
Awesome burrito’s, fajitas and quesadilla’s.
I won’t even mention the warm queso and chips . . .
Please leave a wish or two for my budding sophomore, okay?
Can’t wait to see Batman.
Oh, yeah, and she loves the Jonas Brothers, hence the picture.
I declined on posting a video. {you’re welcome}
Later folks . . .
Happy Birthday, Hannah!

ps. Lynn?
Call us.
Cake tomorrow night and you’re invited!

Nightshade

Darkness falls like heavy rain,
colouring the dormant landscape obsidian,
a pall upon the earth . . .
In lavender hues, the nightshades bloom
As shadows dance inside a room, where he sits in his deafening silence

Dropping his cares by the bed where he lays
he closes his eyes on tomorrow
Soon the nightshade will bloom
taking him far from this room
where he sits in this silence and prays . . .

Maybe the waiting is part of some plan, with ghosts of the past drawing near
but the signs of the dawn keep him lingering on, though he can’t remember the here
and now . . .
The nightshade will weep, the north wind will cry in a world he can no longer find
from the indigo heavens above, a solitary amethyst teardrop falls,
God’s healing salve for a father’s weary mind
And the nightshade will sleep . . .

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