It was late afternoon, and I was supposed to be elbow-deep in dinner makings. You know - hungry boys, a hungry man, and all.
But the way the last fingers of light were slanting through the windows touching things so carefully, gently as if to remember them until tomorrow's return, and the way the little house was serene and quiet in that space between daylight and dark. And the chapel-like calm that saturated the moment...
The makings of dinner would wait, I had to capture this.
This middle of an every-day-in-the-life-of-five-in-a-little-house styling of the bookcase, where art is jammed, vases are stashed, books are stacked, and toys are laid. You might not be able to tell, but the fan blades are dirty. I love it. Love the story of our lives here on display - energy and motion coming to rest. I love the pots of living green that are tucked in here and there among the everything.
I love that the shamrock (oxalis) is actually alive and thriving now. That it really wasn't dead after last winter's bout with aphid infestation. That, even after it looked for all the world like it had breathed its last, even after I'd completely given up hope, took it from the house, and stuck in on the potting bench in the shed, just a pot with soil. I love, even after that, after weeks there in the dark, how I looked one day, and noticed shoots(!) coming up from bone dry soil(!!), and I couldn't believe the miracle.
Love how it came back in, back to its spot on the shelf in front of the vintage bird book. And there it's thrived with its weekly watering and daily sun all summer and fall.
And the collection of plants on the round end table? They didn't escape the caress of the evening sun, either. The ivy that I've had for years now, the one that has seasons of ups and downs, flourishing and failing, just like anyone. I trim it back when it's looking leggy and exhausted, let it rest and catch its breath. It's always thankful and comes back with new leaves sprouting in new places.
And that maidenhair fern, oh, that's been an interesting one. Twice now, it's leaves have gone shriveled and brown despite the weekly soaking with water. Bugs. Twice now I've been brutal with the scissors, whacking the stems back to mere stubs. I even sat it outside in the summer sun and breeze to think about life for a few days, drenched in a good shower of Neem oil. I placed it in the plant infermary under the round table, and left it there. Sure enough, in time, tiny green fiddleheads began to unfurl. It wasn't finished afterall.
And that burrow's tail with its ropes of pudgy leaves? How could I not enjoy such a comic as that?
Through the speckled window (I told you they were dirty), the sun highlights the leaves of the angel vine, the newest in the collection of interior green. This one's wild, a little crazy, and wholly free-spirited. I love that about it. Not everything in life should be prim and proper and good.
The minutes ticked, the camera clicked, and the fingers of sunlight slid across the room, out the window, and slowly closed into the palm of night.
Hello, friends! A heartfelt 'thank you' to all of you for sending your love of my last post, and for all the birthday wishes you sent my way. Oh, you! You're good like that. Wishing you a lovely week's beginning today.
P.S. You may enjoy this post on houseplants, too.
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