You may have noticed that I've been doing a lot of reading (and reviewing) lately. This is by no accident. I'm generally a keen reader, but I tend to turn it up a notch when I am overwhelmed with all the goings on in my life. You can literally tell how well I'm doing mentally by considering how many books I'm breezing through and by examining the state of my garden. I love my garden and wildflowers bring me such joy.
You've had a front row seat to my reading adventures with all of the reviews I've been sharing. So glad I joined the Indie Verse readers group on Instagram! It's a great distraction, and I am supporting other authors like me. However, this year, my garden, which you usually get a full photoshoot of, has been a little more of a secret. Why?
It's full of weeds.
Bright yellow weeds—a riot, in fact. Were you to just glance at it, you would think it to be a thriving, well-tended garden. A closer inspection will show an abundance of dandelions. I have nothing against dandelions. In fact, I'm an avid supporter of that hearty little plant. It's good for the butterflies and the bees and edible for those who enjoy that sort of thing. Over the years, I have purposely grown dandelions in my garden, thinning them out a little here and there for the sake of other plants. The ones unfortunate enough to be thinned were given to my voracious Dutch rabbit, Winter Moon.
But Winter Moon isn't here anymore.
Today is the anniversary of her passing, actually. And the more I stare at my garden, the more my heart twists into a knot.
I should thin the dandelions. I should just start over and try to plant something more whimsical and healing. But I just cannot bring myself to pull those plants. There's no sweet little soul to nibble on them now. No furry baby to leap for joy when presented with a dandelion bouquet.
So, I avoid the garden and pretend it's fine. I keep up appearances and focus on housework, the kids, work/writing, cats, and the puppy, and books… lots of books. There are worse avoidance behaviors out there, I suppose, but mourning is mourning.
Still, my garden can't stay yellow and weedy forever. Seasons change and the pain I feel will numb a little with them. I can say that there is some hope for my mental state, though. This morning, my tender heart noticed another color hidden in the foliage: pink.
I think Winter Moon left me a buttercup because she knew today would be difficult for me. She knows they make me smile. I could use a little more of that.
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