A Little Tea From a Little Tea Pot

It's chilly and damp today. The kind of day I want to curl up under a blanket, read a good book and sip a cup of tea. So, I'm home from work. I've got my flannel pajama pants on, book at the ready and my tea is steeping.

The tea pot I'm using once belonged to my mother-in-law. It's small, just big enough for one mug-full. I love thinking of her taking a few moments to put the kettle on, choose her tea, fill the pot and wait a bit. I wonder if she threw a towel over it to act as a cozy? Or maybe she used an oven mitt like I do sometimes.

Ready to pour out. Usually, I like my tea "black." Sometimes I use honey. Always I love warming my hands around the mug. I think of some chilly afternoons in Ireland, traveling with my mother-in-law in the land of her birth. Memories built. Now, memories to share.

Ah-ha Moments

I took a walk lunchtime walk today. The sky was perfectly blue. The air was neither hot nor cold. The breeze was an unnecessary, but lovely, bonus. It was one of those amazing late summer days we so often take for granted.

Gena's Garden is in late summer shambles. The perennials are overgrown, in need of serious pruning. But today, I was there to enjoy all the life the garden contains. Iridescent green flies, little orange moths and tiger swallowtail butterflies were busy among the hydrangeas and the butterfly bush blooms. I had my camera today and took a few pictures. I wanted to get a nice butterfly shot.

A black and yellow butterfly landed on the purple blossom and I started to focus. Wait, there was something a little off about that butterfly... the bottom wing on its left side was missing, totally gone! Should I wait for a better butterfly?

I started to feel a little ashamed. Would I think a photo ruined if a human being without the usual number of limbs wandered into my viewfinder? Wouldn't I see the person, not the "disability"? So, why would I avoid taking a picture of this butterfly?

The butterfly stopped at several blossoms, gliding masterfully through the leaves and stems of the plants. How did it fly with that wing gone? It sure wasn't crying about the loss, it continued to do what butterflies do, flit around and collect nectar!

Enjoy this stalwart butterfly. They seem fragile, this one even seems broken. And yet, it carries on. We're all broken - some of us more visibly broken than others. Carry on. I will practice thinking you're beautiful the first time I see you!

Flowers for a Funeral... Too Soon

She was a teenager. And now, she'll always be a teenager. A community came together this evening to share the bits and pieces we knew of her time with us. The picture that emerged is shadowed by shock at her leaving us. We were reluctant to talk of the troubles, the struggles. Instead, we spoke of huge hugs, the "million-watt smile," the talents not often shown, the insightful conversations. Someone mentioned the shooting star that was her life and how we were all lucky to have seen it.

I got the message earlier this week. There would be a funeral and it was my week for flower duty. My flower partner and I came to the same conclusion... a pastel color palate would not do. "Our" girlie was not the sort for pink. I started to search "punk flowers" and "goth flowers" to get ideas. 

Music was a good subject of conversation for her and me. We each listened to music the other had never heard, and likely, would never hear! She liked death metal, I like bluegrass. We met somewhere in the middle with Celtic punk and had a great laugh when we discovered Red Hot Chilli Pipers.

Chili Peppers and Chilli Pipers - this was on my mind when I placed the flower order: 

red roses, dark purple carnations, purple asters, purple statice, red alstromeria, red coxcomb (celosia), purple snapdragons, purple stock, fern, pittisporum and... 1 bunch of chili peppers.

Alas, the wholesaler was out of the chili peppers. I smiled, she would know I tried.

So today, I was privileged to design funeral flowers, deep red and purple flowers. How I wish they'd been wedding flowers. How I wish we'd shared the goth flower conversation. I am blessed to be in the group of people who loved her, people who will share the memory of that fleeting, sparkling, marvelous, impossible-to-hold-or-slow-down shooting star.

Genuine

It was "Wax Museum" day at the school. Black History Month research led to biographies of some well-known and not-so-well-known African Americans. Students then memorized a short presentation, dressed as their subjects and became animated figures in the class wax museum.

Visitors to the museum walked up to a figure and pressed the red construction paper "start button." The student figures recited biographies of David Blackwell, Maya Angelou, Mae Jemison, Jackie Robinson and many others.

On one desk was a hastily written note next to the start button. "Out of order." Nearby sat a miserable Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Although his speech was well rehearsed, this wax figure had melted into a puddle of nervous despair. The sign was a genuine expression of emotion. I smiled, offered a little encouragement and moved on, hoping that Dr. King might make an appearance later.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, my office friend and I looked up to see Dr. King stride into the room and sit in a chair. I pressed the start button and the wax figure literally jumped to life. Facts were stated in a confident voice and then, the wax figure smiled.

The message from our wax figure today was more than information about a famous American. It was about allowing others to see real emotion and then trusting the support offered. Pretty brave thing to write that sign. Even braver to allow someone to help with the repair.