restingmotion

Camp Grandma..

For the first time in weeks I feel like my brain is starting to fire on all cylinders again, although there are some lags and sluggish moments.  I have not quite caught up on sleep, and I am still too busy to completely unwind, but at least I am no longer packing, no longer feeling quite like I'm backed up against a wall.

 

I thought I'd entertain you with a couple of photos from Camp Grandma, which happened two weeks ago (in the middle of all that packing).  Owen and I stayed in a hotel downtown one weekend, while his parents went off on their own adventures.  I could have stayed home amidst the boxes, but frankly thought a hotel would be more relaxing and more fun. 

 

Friday night was Grandma's choice, as I had symphony tickets.  I had promised Owen popcorn during the concert, but I don't think there was any popcorn that evening.  Some kind of sour candies were a suitable alternative.  But before dinner we went to Nama Sushi for dinner.  Owen devoured his calamari salad and made good headway with my sashimi platter as well, which was good because I needed the help.  We shared thoughts about comparative flavors of the different fish, which was a little more briny, the surprising sweetness on the tongue of certain species, and O was better at remembering which was which than I was.  Dinner was followed by the symphony, and Owen had thoughtful comments about the Chopin and the pianist's technique.  I agreed with all that but was also amazed because I think I would have struggled more with sitting through 40 minutes of Chopin when I was his age.

The highlight of the evening however was watching the rain and thunderstorm and the downtown lights through the hotel window. 

 

Saturday was Owen's day, and since it rained a good bit we got to do fun hotel things like order room service and watch too much tv.  We took Tikka for a walk, went out for burgers for lunch, wandered around the Rossini Festival, put on every year by the Knoxville Opera, where we got to listen to more music and engage in all kinds of fun activities. This was one of the advantages of already being downtown.  We were there when the rain stopped, and if we'd had to load ourselves into a car and drive, we probably wouldn't have made it.  We were in the movie theater watching Boss Baby when the afternoon floodgates opened however and we did have to make a mad dash from portico to awning to covered walkway before finally making it back to our hotel looking like drowned rats and doubled over with laughter.

It was a fun weekend, relaxing and worth the time.  Even if it meant once again packing up until the last possible minute, I'd do it again.

Transition Time

Yesterday was moving day.  I posted this photo to facebook; in fact, I posted it twice although that was accidental.  It was taken just before the first truckload left my old house and went to my new house:

 

I don't believe I realized yet how tired I actually was, as I had probably been running on adrenaline for a week or more, that panicked surge compensating for lack of sleep, and sometimes overcompensating and keeping me from sleep when I desperately needed it. Today all my worldly goods, or most of them at least, are at the new house, piled high to the rafters in one room.  Tikka and I, and a few belongings, are in temporary housing near my new neighborhood as the new house is not quite ready for occupancy.  Tikka is calmer than she was last week, but still clingy, and the exhaustion of the past couple of weeks has caught up with me.  I slept 10 hours last night, and although there are things I need to do today, I could easily sleep another 10, or more.  Today, the exhaustion shows in the deep circles under my eyes, in the way the full weight of my 58 years, and the stress of moving show on my face, in my aching knees and hips, the bruises on  my wrists from lifting and hauling boxes.  Today I am tired, but today I am also content.

 

Two more days and I will walk away from the old house forever.  I loved my neighborhood, loved my neighbors, loved my garden.  But this is the last photo of that house.  There are only a few small tasks to be accomplished before I step fully into transition time, the space between houses, the time in which my only ambition is to have no ambitions. It is a good place to be, and I am privileged to be able to enjoy the opportunity.

 

(this post was posted twice because I accidentally deleted the photo of the rose from the old house from the fist posting).

 

Between Spaces: random mutterings on leaving one place for another

I have not disappeared from the face of the earth, but it seems that my words have indeed occasionally disappeared into the bowels of boxes and the rigors of moving.  I would be lying if I did not admit to being occasionally overwhelmed and most certainly overextended.  My brain is full, and if I have not completely shirked the responsibilities of life lived outside the confines of these two houses, I've come terribly close on occasion.  I can confess that there have been desperate evenings when I stay up late packing in panicked desperation, thinking I will never finish, and also mornings when I awake with a start, remembering tasks left undone (despite lists) and all my good intentions.  For the first time in a long time I can honestly say I cannot conceive of taking on anything else right now.  I have no room, no energy, no ideas, no words

 

And yet, all this is not as bad as it sounds even though this move is both harder and easier than any of my previous moves.  My current (old) house has sold and we close at the end of next week.  For all practical purposes, this house is no longer my house, although I will occupy it for a few more days. The truth is that it hasn't been my house for a long time now, since I bought the new house, even though work is still progressing there, and I cannot yet move in.  This space is simply a space I occupy for a short time, the passing of which is marked with each new box, each empty room.  I had thought this process of packing up and letting go would be unsettling, as it was  when we moved from New York to Tennessee, but the circumstances are different now.  This time around, the emptier the house becomes the happier I feel, like I am letting a bird free to fly off on its own and leave me behind.  It is no longer my house, no longer my yard, no longer mine. And as for me, I am no longer tied to this space, tied to this past; I too am free.

 

Another thing I hadn't imagined:  As I pack, letting go of things becomes easy, as if I am shedding layers of dried-up skin that no longer serve any purpose.  I am clearing out remnants of past lives, things that are no longer relavant to my life, things that are chains to the past, to something long gone, pulling me backward rather than allowing me to reach forward.  The process has made me ponder the way we tend to define ourselves by the circumstances of our life, by the idea of what we are, as opposed to who we are.  Who we are, our true inner selves, adapts to the what of our circumstances, but those circumstances don't define us unless we refuse to adapt, refuse to let go.  Not that letting go is necessarily easy, it is not, and of course there are bound to be missteps along the way, but those missteps don't define us either unless we use them as chains.  

 

I see this old house with new eyes and I marvel at its charms.  My neighbors are right, it is a lovely house.  Were I starting over today I would furnish and arrange it completely differently from the way it was, not only from the way it was when we moved in, but the way it was before I started packing.  I see far more clearly how liminal in its own way this space was for me, and I see that, as lovely as I see that this house is, I am not and would not be, the buyer of this house.  It is no longer my house.

 

A long time ago, when I was still a girl, my maternal grandfather passed on two bits of wisdom that have stuck with me, although at the time I perhaps dismissed them, not recognizing their true worth.  One of those nuggets went something along the lines of "if you can't afford to lose it, you can't afford to own it".  Being young and foolish, owning nothing but wanting everything, I thought that was just completely unrealistic.  Now I know better, and see great wisdom in that advice.  It is great advice from a financial standpoint, in terms of not living beyond one's means, but it is great on other levels  as well.  If you own it, or make it, or create it but can't let it go, it owns you and you are not free.  If you can't afford to let it go, you can't afford it in the first place.  For my grandfather, who literally worked his way up from nothing, I'm certain this wisdom was hard-earned, and I'm sure he struggled, even though he lived a fairly modest life, for he was just as prone to hoarding something as any of us.  It is easy to learn to let go when one is surrounded by abundance, much harder when our things mark our rise -- out of physical poverty, out of emotional poverty, out of lack or emptiness of any sort.

 

Yes, I made a house that I feel is beautiful.  I hadn't, in fact, realized that this idea of creating beauty was so elemental to my own emotional self; it is something I perhaps neglected for far too long.   Even so, as much as the new owners may find my old house beautiful, they will undoubtedly change it again to make it fit their lives, just as I am already changing my new house.  My neighbors sit on my back patio and ask me how I could leave, and my only answer is how can I not?  It is, quite simply, time to go, time to let go.  The house is fresh and ready for its new owners.  I have enjoyed this space.  I have enjoyed my beautiful flowers, my patio, the space created here, and yet I am ready for whatever comes next.

Bursting Forth

Yesterday afternoon I kept dozing off.  It was safe, I was happily ensconced at the salon for a manicure and pedicure, and was probably the most relaxed I've been in over a week.  I actually came home and took a nap before busying myself again. Can't say that I was energetic though, I had barely enough energy to spiralize some zucchini into zoodles.  Which was good because it meant I at least had something to eat.

Zoodles with olive oil and garlic, seared scallops.  Perhaps the garlic is darker than I intended, and the scallops lighter, but delicious none the less.

 

You see, I've not been sleeping very well at all.  I stay up too late (because I can't sleep) and wake up too early, and although the circles under my eyes grow deeper and darker, sleep eludes me.  I've been simultaneously excited and terrified, extremely focused and yet distracted, feeling like I am standing on the edge, but on the edge of what? The precipice? Shangri-La?  Likely neither of those.  I just have to open the door and walk through.

 

I am closing on a new house this morning, hence all the stress and excitement.  Why the particular sense of terror mingled with all that excitement? I only suppose that it is that same sense of striking out on my own, of letting go, perhaps mingled with a tinge of fear.  I alternate between being long past ready to move, although I don't yet have my current house on the market and I don't have a moving date, and a deeply unsettling need to hunker down and stay even though I know in my bones that it is not the right thing to do.  Sometimes the familiar is all too appealing.

 

Besides, in a truly rational sense, it is not like I am really doing anything I haven't done before. Its not my first house.  George wasn't even really all that involved in the last house purchase, even though he was here for emotional support, at least in his physical presence and its link to the shared history and relationship.  Intellectually, and often emotionally, however he was not always there, and how I struggled with that loss at the time, with the responsibility I did not want to claim.  I had managed everything for a long time.  Despite all that, despite decades of experience in life and houses,  it is like everything is new, and what lies beyond the door frame is shadowed in fog.

The first Iris Histroides popped its head up this week.  One brave, lonely blossom surrounded by bare ground.  She made me smile. She still make me smile.  She looks so delicate and fragile, yet I know she will survive whatever Mother Nature throws her way, even frosts and snow.  I should take heart in that.  Spring comes regardless.  All you have to do is walk through the door.

Ch..ch..changes...

There is something I haven't told you. 

 

Change is afoot.  It began in Arkansas.  No, that is not quite accurate because it began before I went to Arkansas, but I only became aware of the shift in Arkansas.  It seems so long ago now, but of course it is not, merely 2 months.  Two months that seem in some ways like a whirlwind and in others like a lifetime.

 

My last day in Fayetteville was drizzly and gray.  I had hoped to visit at least one of the state parks we had camped at when I was a child.  But of course it was December and the parks were closed. Instead I walked around Lake Fayetteville, a little over 4 miles of paved trail around the lake, but I took detours, wandered at will, and walked slightly over 5 miles, returning to my car chilled and happy. 

 

It is amazing to me how going someplace else, someplace outside of your normal purview, brings you closer to yourself.  One stretches sides of oneself that get neglected in the routines of everyday life, and although it sounds completely banal to say so, the everyday and the extraordinary almost become transposed in an odd way that brings us closer to ourselves.  Strange that, the way that the place where we feel most at home, most secure, and I am a homebody if anything, is sometimes so secure that we lose some essential part of ourselves.

 

So there I was, walking in the cold, mid-40's drizzle, on a Sunday afternoon in early December.  I was a visitor to Northwest Arkansas.  I knew no one, although I would smile and chat with the few other walkers and bicyclists I would pass, and some part of me felt perfectly comfortable and safe.  Ostensibly, in a very real way, I was not.  I was a middle aged single woman on a wooded path in a mostly deserted space, a woman not from the area, whom no one knew, and no one knew where I was.  I have not forgotten this aspect of existence, and it is always present.  But if we think of it we become paralyzed. Although I don't believe I had ever been to Lake Fayetteville before, I had spent time in this area as a child.  The geology, the flora, the sense of the place was familiar to me and it felt like home.  Truthfully it felt like an echo of home, an imagining, because I haven't been in Northwest Arkansas in 43 or 44 years.  The people, the towns, the environment has changed; it is no longer the place I knew even though echoes of that place still exist.

 

As I thought about Arkansas, as I thought about how I'd love to go back and hike the trails I hiked as a child, explore the familiar places, I began to question myself.  Why is it, I wondered, do I feel more secure in a land of memory, in a land of fleeting familiarity, familiarity that is in fact an illusion, than in the place I currently live.  I don't go hiking in the Smokies, although I often think about doing so, and they are much closer to home.  Honestly I am no safer in Arkansas than at home, perhaps less safe.  What is it about memory, about personal history, about the illusion of knowing something that lulls us into false security?  And of course this got me thinking about home.  Why is it that we are willing to cling to something that we know is not right, just because it is familiar, rather than risk change?  I am just as prone to this as anyone else.

 

It was at this moment that I realized that I was ready to let go.  The house I live in is, in its own way, a chain, tying me to the past.  It was never intended to be a permanent space, we knew we might only be here temporarily.  Miriam's words echo in my mind, from before we moved:  "It is only a three-year grant" she said,  as well as my response "Three years is a lifetime for your father."   How prescient those words proved to be.  Not quite two years later he was gone. But I wasn't ready.  I needed time. Last summer I was still not ready.  The thought of moving made me sick, even though there was a house on the market I thought I potentially liked.  Then I painted the house, rearranged the furniture yet again, ostensibly getting it ready in advance, but also looking forward to enjoying this newly revitalized space for another year or so.  My intention was to begin looking for a new place in January 2018, a time that fit into my neatly organized plan:  I would make a decision about moving five years after George's death.  But as I walked around Lake Fayetteville, I realized I was ready to let go, ready to move on.

 

When I returned home I was chatting with a friend, and I mentioned this realization, this acceptance that I was ready to move forward to the next stage, that I have in fact built my own life and the only thing truly keeping me from fully occupying it required a very physical letting go of the old life.  I have changed this house; made it more mine, but the house itself was never "my" house, it was a place that fit a specific need, the needs of a dying George.  It was always a house of letting go and moving on, and now it is time to do just that.  I won't lose the past; it is a part of me always.  Our pasts are always wedded to who we are, but we don't have to be chained by them.  And so I will be moving.  I honestly don't know when yet.  But in the past few years I have built a life, my life, and now it is time to step into it fully.

 

 

 

 

Recovery

I am taking the sunshine cure in Dallas.  Idle hours were whiled away yesterday, basking in the sunshine and dry air, twirling in my mothers hanging chaise.  It was probably the best thing my sinuses have experienced yet this year, as I have continued to battle the dregs of the sinus crud that ended 2016 and forced me to bed for the beginning of 2017. 

 

Alas this respite will be short-lived; hopefully it will be enough to get us over the hump, my sinuses and I, as we will be back in the cold and damp tomorrow.  We've been functioning fairly well except for the aforementioned residual congestion that just doesn't completely clear up.  But perhaps not as well as I've claimed, since I've taken to thinking of my sinuses as an evil twin I must tolerate begrudgingly at that,  an evil twin who keeps me from doing what I want to do. There were further setbacks this weekend, although whether this was due to over-activity or the return of seeping dampness remains undetermined.

 

The overdoing is my own fault, not that I am complaining.  I wouldn't undo a moment.

 

Friday night was symphony night, and it was Friday night that my congestion began to return.  In this case I do blame the weather, as the air had turned markedly damp in the late afternoon. But the concert was a delight.  The concert opened with Sarka, the third segment of Bedrich Smetana's Ma Vlast, which was delightfully performed, and which was followed by a gorgeous rendition of Sibelius' Violin Concerto in D Minor, performed by violinist Bella Hristova. The performance was a delight of precision and cooperation, of fresh and confident phrasing, and gentle storytelling which carried the audience away. 

 

I was however so congested at the intermission I considered going home, although I did not.  I am glad that I stayed for the performance of Dvorak's Symphony No. 6 in D Major which was beautifully and lushly performed, with excellent balance between the woodwinds and the strings and rousing finale, which of course roused the audience as well.  It was a lovely performance of this, the least performed of Dvorak's final 4 symphonies.  It was not my favorite rendition, as I realize that I tend to lump performances of this work into two "camps", the lush, almost sonorous camp and the light and sparkling camp.  You might not be surprised to learn that my preference is for the latter, not that I would turn down the opportunity to hear this symphony, regardless of interpretation. .  Or perhaps this was simply the congestion speaking, and the way it lulled my body into somnolence when it yearned for a little gentle ebullience.  Either way I am happy I stayed.

Saturday the Davis and Fehrenbach clan trekked off to Johnson City to see the Harlem Globetrotters. It was a wonderful, if exhausting day, and we played tag with the Globetrotters bus at least part of the way back to Knoxville, which seemed to be almost as much of a thrill to a 10-year old as the game itself.  Oh yes,  some part of me does remember those days.

 

Sunday concluded with a feast of my brother's fabulous ribs.  Really, every time I come to Dallas I wonder why I eat barbecue anywhere else, as his is the best I've had anywhere, at least as far as I can recall.  Then I remember.  I live in Tennessee. Oh well.

 

Have a great week.

Three Decembers: A Journey

Saturday evening I attended a performance of Jake Heggie's Three Decembers produced by Opera Fayetteville.  Although I have heard of Heggie, I am familiar with his work in name only.  I have not been to any performances or sought out any recordings, and I intentionally went into this performance blind.  I must say that although I cannot say the work is beautiful, the performance was powerful and touching.  There is an easy lyricism to the music, and it was beautifully sung and acted. The performance perfectly captured the sadness of the characters and the frustrations and loss of this family, bound up in their own stories, and unable to express their love for each other. 

 

 

Three Decembers is based on Terrence McNally's play Some Christmas Letters with some inspiration from Ibsen as well. The set was minimalist, befitting an opera that revolves primarily around the interior world of the three characters: famous actress Madeline Mitchell, and her two grown children.  Set as a series of letters and interactions between the children and their mother, the story is really about the often tenuous nature of relationships and the way the stories we build around ourselves define us and enslave us.  In the opera we hear and feel the yearning of the characters, but also their bitterness and we feel the constraints of the walls they build around themselves, walls they are unable to cross.  When some of those walls are shattered, they must rebuild, but they don't necessarily cross through the rubble to the other side.

 

Opera Fayetteville is a young opera company in Fayetteville Arkansas with a two-fold focus:  on providing performance opportunities for young opera singers in the early stages of their careers,  and performing contemporary operas in English.  I am happy to learn about this organization, and I was happy to have attended a performance.  I am sure there are other interesting companies doing interesting work across the country, but this is where I happened to be.

 

Yes, I went to Arkansas. I went to Arkansas to hear an opera I knew nothing about, in a production by an company I also knew nothing about.  And I had a marvelous time.  I went on a lark.  I heard about the opera because George's first cousin twice-removed, Jacob Scharfman was performing in the role of Charlie.  I went because I like contemporary opera.  I went because I've always been interested in going places to see and hear new things.  I went because I had a free weekend.  I went because, although I don't know Jacob well, his late father was someone I counted as a close friend in our youth, and although our lives had drifted, I still wanted to support Jacob in this endeavor.

 

I went, and I didn't tell Jacob I was going.  Partly this was just because I've been struggling through the shallows in the last 5 or 6 months, and am only just beginning to find my way back into the deep waters.  Partly this was because I was distracted and I forgot until it was too late, the timing was too close. This was precisely because I don't know Jacob well, and I would only be there in the middle of production when the would be working, and I did not want to impose a sense of obligation, a sense that something extra was needed to meet with some distant relative through marriage that he didn't even know. Maybe this was the right choice, maybe it was wrong; I simply don't know. 

 

I do know that Jacob is a good actor as well as an excellent singer.  I do know that the audience felt the raw power of emotion when his character, Charlie, was cradling one of the shirts belonging to Burt, his partner, who had recently died of AIDS.  I recalled that same feeling, known to all who have suffered a profound loss, of doing the same with George's sweatshirt.  It brought tears to my eyes, and not only mine. But I also saw a young Jacob, only a senior in college when his father died almost four years ago, loss and pain etched on his face.  It takes talent and guts to channel that pain and turn it into art. 

 

Perhaps that was a bit voyeuristic, that hidden knowledge.  But it was a joy to see this young man shine, to see this moving story told by three marvelous young talents.  It was good to simply be there, to see and hear this performance, to see good work being done by good people in diverse places.  It was good.

A Few Snippets From San Francisco.

All I can say is that I didn't intend to drag this out so long...

 

Here I am my first morning in San Francisco ready to go out.  It is cool and I intend to walk around a while and perhaps snag myself a treat before meeting Lisa for lunch.  Although you can't tell, and I forgot to take pictures during the day, the jacket is navy, and I am wearing a winey-purple tunic under it. By the time I met Lisa, the scarf was either tied to my handbag, or stuffed inside. 

After admiring each other's watches I mentioned that I needed a second watch, one without a leather strap, one that I could wear working outside in the humid summer heat.  I had been considering an Apple watch for some time, especially the lavender-strapped variety she had linked to in her blog.  However, each time I went shopping for one in Knoxville the lavender was out of stock, and I was reluctant to order it sight unseen. And so, after a conversation-filled lunch, being only a couple of blocks away, we proceeded to the Apple Store.

The store is architecturally brilliant, and I wish I had taken more pictures, had spent more time looking at the way the store uses light and space, creating something that is both protected and open, modern yet with a respect for the past.  Alas I was entranced with the process of spending money and being kitted out in my new watch.

The next day I went to the Fort Mason Center with friends to see the American Craft Council Show.  We had a lovely time.  I was surprised in that the show seemed smaller and quieter than I had remembered the early shows at Rhinebeck being, or the Baltimore and Atlanta shows, which I remember as being mammoth and crowded.  But it has been years, and perhaps my memory is faulty.  There was much to see, and I collected some cards from artists whose work I admired.  The  tiles pictured above reminded me of paint colors I had been looking at recently, and they also appeal to that part of me that loves old Craftsman tiles (and over-the top art nouveau tiles as well), that same part of me that still dreams of a 1920's or 1930s house.

But this necklace was the only thing I purchased.  It seems there was a gray and lavender and rose gold theme going on. Two simple beads on a cord.  It was the specific shapes and colors that attracted me, and its casual simplicity.  The necklace is exactly the kind of simple shape I love, especially in the summer, when it feels too hot for any excess.

 

 

 

Two Photos

During my recent blog break I was in San Francisco.  I was also in airports during the Delta computer shut-down and flight-cancellation mess.  But I was one of the lucky ones, one of the people who got to my destination within reasonable proximity of being on the same day, and with minimal fuss.  A lot of other things went on during my blog break, and they will undoubtedly come out in their own time.  But this is a (relatively) short post, and not the time for such things.

 

Once upon a time, I travelled to San Francisco once or twice a year.  But nine years had passed since my last visit, nine of the hardest years of my life.  Nine years ago, my own personal fracture lines were starting to show.  It was time to return, but I hadn't been ready before now.  I went to San Francisco to see friends, old friends mostly, friends who knew me before, but my trip also ended up being about reconnection with that person whom I was once was and still  am to some extent.  It was a visit of rediscovery.

 

I have many friends in San Francisco, many friends whom I did not see, many friends who may have been perfectly happy to get together, and yet I didn't make the effort.  And yet there were old friends,  friends I had not seen in seven years, nine years, friends I needed to see again.  There was a meeting with a new friend who is also an old friend.  And there was time to simply walk in this city.  Some part of my old self was waiting for reconnection, for rediscovery. I have never lived in San Francisco, but perhaps I have simply been there enough that I am completely comfortable being who I am without worrying about social signaling or connecting with my "tribe" when I am there.  I am sure if I were there longer than a few days, than a week or two here and there, my feelings would be different. But San Francisco reminds me that it is the closest I have come to be being a place person, although I am not a person of that place.  I have always  been a relationship person.  Home is where the heart is, where the relationship(s) that sustain the soul are, at least for me.  And yet I can, for a brief moment, when I am in San Francisco, understand the place-driven, for whom home is as much about place as about relationship. 

A lot happened on my blog beak.  I read.  I walked.  I spent time with friends and family.  And I rediscovered something about myself that had, before this, remained at least partially hidden.  That is the way of life sometimes, one step forward and two steps back.  Or is it the other way around?  It depends on our understanding.

 

Old and new.  Change, fear, and holding on to the dear and known aspects of life.  This is the human condition, this balance, this struggle.  The two photos in this post were taken within three paces and one counter-clockwise turn of each other.   They were the only pictures I took of this city.  The old, the new, the uncharted path. We never know where we are going, but wherever we end up is at least partially shaped by where we have been.

 

 

 

 

Take a Walk With Me.

Take a walk with me. 

 

It is an early morning in June, slightly before sunrise when we set out.  We are walking around the lake at the resort where I am staying with my family in Orlando.  The resort is perfectly nice; it would be a good place to stay with children for a family gathering, especially if one was planning on visiting the parks and cooking in at least part of the time.  I am not so certain it is a place that I will frequent at this stage in my life.

We've already walked around the small lake a couple of times,  The loop is slightly over 1/2 mile and this is our third loop.  We've watched a turtle glide lazily around the boardwalk on one end of the lake. But it is still early and there are only a few walkers and runners out.  We are on vacation time after all.  The playgrounds are empty, although just yesterday I watched a family playing checkers, the youngest child doggedly struggling with the large pieces, stubbornly refusing too much assistance from mom in his quest to be one of the "big" kids.

But even in these manicured gardens, there are things to see, treasures both grand, like the large bed of agapanthus,

and small delicacies, like the color of new leaves, still soft and velvety to the touch.

Two birds are having an extended conversation.  What are they saying?

There are hot sunny yellows, calling out for attention,

and pinks that seem cool and soothing in the gray early morning light.

Then there are the shy whites, tiny blossoms hidden in masses of greenery, dainty treasures that are simultaneously seen and not seen.  A small flash of white as one passes by, easily missed in the daily bustle, but showing great beauty if one takes the time to look.

Ahh, we are rounding the final bend. Soon the sun will be high and the sounds of laughter and splashing water will fill the air.  It is time to stop and savor a post walk cup of coffee before beginning the day.