In front of my house, streamers of blooms festoon the stairs, the hill, rising out of the planters I put in years ago when I had no job and plenty of time. Roses, roses, roses, cotton-candy pink, tangerine, candy-striped, deep damask, satin cream. Chosen for form and scent, the blossoms make a riot of origami-complex, folded forms, pulling you in to wonder at how so many petals could possibly be forced together. The scent is a curtain of sensuality surrounding the entire house, from the street's edge up two stories to the front door - the smell of rugosa, of bourbon rose, of flowers too spikey to entice weaker gardeners but balm to me and my pricked fingers. The peonies still laugh at me but my apothecary rose bends its canes and blesses me with scores of satiny buds unfolding in endless progression. Smell me. Revel in me.
Across the lake in the forested hills where my office hides, the world is a swirl of little tufts flying through the air. Willow? Cottonwood? I'm not sure, but from three stories up I can see them drifting up, sideways, across the road, above the low buildings - bringing home the fact that we are creatures that move through a medium just as real as water. Through the windows I am entranced by their random movements. I want to snatch them with my fingers, play with them, make pillows out of them - float among them.
As for me ... my presentation today was a hit, and I finally had the masala dosa I've been craving for days. Life seems good, the world seems alive, and I feel extraordinarily lazy. The pink rose on my desk reminds me of home, and I am ready to return there and shut the door gently on this week.