Tim and
I got some hard news this week. A very dear friend and long-time client
received a diagnosis of Stage 4 lung cancer. It somehow feels appropriate—if “appropriate”
is even close to the right word—that this body-slam should come in the fall,
when a transitioning world puts on its gayest and gaudiest dress before fading
into grey.
In
southeastern North Carolina, the deciduous trees don’t put on much of a show most
years. Except for the maples, reds are muted, browned. Tulip poplar and
sycamore leaves turn bright yellow for about ten minutes before their edges go
crispy, and they’re on the ground. Occasionally
the sweet gums spark multi-hued, but dull purple is much more common.
This is
not to say the landscape’s gone bland. You just have to take the time to look. When I did, I found shards of rainbow all over
the place.
Red pentas
blazing in a windowbox.
An orange
sweet pepper, possibly the last of the season.
A yellow-yellow
black-eyed susan petal, still hanging on.
Yellow-orange tarragon flowers
dug from a friend’s house last Saturday.
Chartreuse new growth on ‘Alabama
Sunset’ coleus.
New green baby iceberg lettuce
leaves.
Metallic blue Viburnum tinus berries.
True-blue mealycup sage, one of
my favorite flowers.
Yellow-eyed lavender asters
hugging the ground.
Velvety violet Mexican bush
sage.
The magnificent magenta of an ‘Alabama
Sunset’ leaf.
Even if you live where sugar
maples blaze all October long or where bougainvillea blooms year-round, comfort—and
joy—can be found in nature’s saturated colors, even when the world dips into
shadow.
Gratitude for what we have is so important. Thanks for dropping by.
Kathy
