Looks like the spring flowers are being fooled by the warm weather, my friend said as we walked through the close after class. They are: it was in the mid-50s yesterday, and certain daffodils along the walk have awakened from their winter's slumber in response.
I used to worry about them when they did that -- the poor things will freeze to death when the snow returns, I would think, and there will be no host of golden daffodils, not a single daff. But they don't seem any the worse for their early rising and subsequent chill. They just stand there in the snow and wait for better days. Then they bloom as usual.
What if something bad happens? What if something happens so I can't do what I was going to do in the way I was going to do it? Well, you'll just have to find a different way. Or you'll have to do something else. But your story isn't over until you're downright dead, and it isn't even over then. Your new story begins right away.
The bright seed catalogues have arrived. I look through them and long for the flowers, long to plant, long to see the first little leaves poke through the dark soil. I may be impatient, but I don't have to be afraid. Flowers are built to grow, just like the rest of us. They will come, right on time: not clock time or calendar time -- their time.
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