It’s silly to consider that one can interact with a plant…
So how come I resort,with a snickering smile, to teasing the bathroom plant every few days by turning it 180 degrees. As its little leaves all end up facing the sunny window, I come along, and all at once it finds itself completely turned around facing the wall. Its cellulose fiber stems have to go through the exercise of turning back to face the window all over again.
It’s silly, practically ridiculous, to consider that one can be attached to a plant…
So how come I am feeling sad right now as the bottlebrush tree in the back yard is being taken out. I just shut the shades to avoid seeing the workers carry the detached limbs of the tall and stately tree to the truck. As I type, the stump cutter is roaring, sending up a big brown cloud of dirt, the dog is restrained within the house earnestly panting to get out, and I am in one of the far rooms of the house eager to get away from both of them.
It’s silly, practically ridiculous, absolutely absurd to consider that one can miss a plant…
but somehow I think I will.
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a whim of variety, an impulse of miscellaneous, an assortment of notions, and a varied fancy of yonder impressions
About Me
- RS
- I live in this state, down the street around the corner, on the right, in the neighboorhood with the tree lined street in my peach colored house with the lawn and the flowers and the small car in front. If you happen to pass by you may find me out watering and if this is so feel free to wave hello and I'll probably offer you some cold lemonade and oatmeal cookies and we could talk about the weather and such.
Thoughtful Thought of the Moment
It requries a grander heroism to stand and wait and not lose heart and not lose hope, to submit to the will of God, to give up work and honors to others, to be quiet, confident and rejoicing, while the happy, busy multitude go on and away. It is the grandest life "having done all, to stand".
From J.R. Miller in Streams in the Desert
"It isn't the thing you do, dear
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bitter heartache
At the setting of the sun;
The tender word unspoken
The letter you did not write
The flower you might have sent, dear
Are your haunting ghosts at night.
The stone you might have lifted,
Out of your brother's way,
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time or thought for,
With troubles enough of your own.
These little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind,
These chances to be angels,
Which even mortals find-
They come in night and silence,
Each chill reproachful wrath,
When hope is faint and flagging
And a blight has dropped on faith.
For life is all too short, dear.
And sorrow is all to great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late.
And it is not the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bitter heartache,
At the setting of the sun."
-Adeladie Proctor
From J.R. Miller in Streams in the Desert
"It isn't the thing you do, dear
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bitter heartache
At the setting of the sun;
The tender word unspoken
The letter you did not write
The flower you might have sent, dear
Are your haunting ghosts at night.
The stone you might have lifted,
Out of your brother's way,
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time or thought for,
With troubles enough of your own.
These little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind,
These chances to be angels,
Which even mortals find-
They come in night and silence,
Each chill reproachful wrath,
When hope is faint and flagging
And a blight has dropped on faith.
For life is all too short, dear.
And sorrow is all to great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late.
And it is not the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bitter heartache,
At the setting of the sun."
-Adeladie Proctor