I shouldn't really be writing right now. Work is piling up on both sides of my small desk. Books have spilled over onto the floor since the dining room chair I was using to hold them had to be returned to its proper place in the dining room. Now when I put my giant history textbooks down they echo with a resounding thud throughout the house, sometimes prompting the Boyfriend to come check on me to make sure the books haven't won. That being said, some days you just know you have to write. Or I do, anyway. I get this tightness in my chest and it's hard to get a full breath. I get antsy and jittery in ways that aren't attributable to the coffee. That's when I know it's time to write.
I have nothing in particular to give you today. No gems of wisdom or sage advice. Oh wait, I never have those. But nothing in particular. And no pictures today. Trying to successfully load them into Blogger just makes the tension come back and today is all about calming, not stressing. It's gray and flat outside, which kind of fits my mood and makes the coffee taste even better.
This week has been busy, like they all are lately, but I've enjoyed watching the zinnias sprout in my office window and the tulips grow outside my window. A couple of the tulips are sending up stems with swollen nubs on the end, which means I think we're going to have flowers one of these days after all. The yellow pansies that overwintered in the pots have finally opened and some new additions in shades of red and purple have perked up the patio and front porch.
Speaking of tulips, one almost brought me to tears the other day. Now keep in mind I said "tulips," because "Tulip" is a whole different monster who often brings people--or at least me and the water company guys--to tears. Tulip is the name of the Boyfriend's rose bush in front of his townhouse. I think it's named Tulip because when the Boyfriend first moved into that house, he honestly didn't know the difference between a tulip and a rose. Alright, he probably could identify a rose, but definitely not a tulip. He knew irises--which were the first flowers he ever gave me--but that was it. So as we were walking one spring and I was talking about the tulips (because what else would I be talking about?), he pointed out to me that he had no clue what a tulip was--it could have been a type of rose for all he knew. Well, somehow the giant rose bush, which will probably be thriving along with the cockroaches and goatheads long after the apocalypse, was dubbed Tulip. But Tulip is really a whole different story. I digress . . .
We were on our way home from the Boyfriend's parents' house after some hard manual labor. (Ok, ok, he did hard labor while I ate pizza, drank beer, and looked at plants.) Since it was still light out at 7 o'clock, we drove by the Mini on a reconnaissance mission. Last year I planted a tulip by the light post out front of the Mini. It was already blooming, but I figured it would provide some nice color and then maybe even survive for next spring. Well, the nice color part didn't work out so well. It wasn't in the ground long before it looked like someone whacked the whole upper part of the plant off. As it turns out, I think it was one of the deer that roam around Boise's east end from time to time. The numerous hoof prints left in the wet spring dirt make this assumption more than just a hunch. In any case, when we drove by last week, there it was. It hadn't flowered yet, but the deep green leaves were standing tall, looking fully alive and uneaten.
I was thrilled and completely surprised. (Remember, I always assume plants won't grow or I will kill them.) I think I might have teared up a bit. Although I blamed it on missing the soft serve ice cream at the Roosevelt Market, it was really because I was happy to see that I had changed that place. I left something beautiful in a place that left me with wonderful memories. That's what the idea of place is all about--it's a give and take. I pictured whoever is living there now coming outside one morning--maybe to walk downtown or maybe to get a latte from the Roosevelt Market--and seeing that tulip coming up, promising that spring was coming. She didn't know there was a tulip there and yes, I realize she probably doesn't really care, but that's not the point! The point is that I know it's there and that from now on that tulip will appear every spring in the place that I called the Mini. Or at least until it succumbs to the creatures of the East End, but hey, even they are part of that place.