Every spring for as long as forever, my parents have the same talkathon. It never changes. My mom stands her ground that my dad has spent an obscene amount of money on flowers, plants, and trees. He has. She is right. She sees in black and white, the money woman, an accountant by trade. My father sees only color, and no numbers. They are quite the pair.
Once all the life is laid in the ground of their yard, a reverence falls over new flamboyant life. The talkathon ends.
This year I missed their San Diego talkathon. But I witnessed the earth wake up in Massachusetts. Many days I wondered when Spring was our turn.
I have been pruned, cut back. I lived a six month winter.
And then one day in May, I saw the earth wake up. It was my turn for Spring. It was my turn to see emerald green life shoot from muddy brown earth.
It was my turn to see petals dust where my feet pounded.
It was my turn to see God paint the corollas on the trees. And it is not beyond me to believe He painted them for me. Certainly it is not beyond Him.
I can vouch for the blooms of the tulip magnolia trees. They do not bloom before the tree is 20 to 30 years old. Just maybe I am part tulip magnolia. Pruned first to grow, and then to bloom.
The splendor of color surrounds me. The flowers are the refrain of His song. Winters are not forever. Seasons of slumber pass, though they weigh thick. And one day the earth wakes and it is as if winter never was.
Birth. Bloom. Beauty.
Life lived loudly.
Bold. Brilliant. Blooms without hesitation.
I marvel that I am right here, right now.
Wife to my man. Mother to my three little men.
I am living.
I am breathing.
I am blooming.
I paint the Earth.
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