The Beauty of Living

exclusively Skirt in the Kitchen

I don’t have tulips to say I tiptoed through the tulips this past summer though I’ve always wanted tulips from Holland.

I did, however, look through rose-colored glasses, literally–and peer through a lens to gaze in admiration every time I soaked in the sunlight on zinnias.  I’m still caught in the moment while summer has ended, like an old flame or a summer love that is gone.I got to watch butterflies prance and dance upon pink petals, feed from a sweet scent of nectar,and glide safely for a land on neighboring stems.  I loved the definition in their wings, their elegance, their splendor, their paper-cut appearance of beauty.  I marveled at their strength, the butterflies and the zinnias…It’s now mid-October.  Some of the zinnias have been spent, but some are still full of color and beauty, still with buds.  The butterflies have already left for warmer climate.  I miss them.  I miss summer.Residing within city limits, I was ordered today (again) to uproot all the zinnias, plus much of everything else, or the city would come do the job for me as well as fine me.  Oh, I could cut them 41 to 14 inches but they’d never bloom again or have ANY blooms left this late in the season, that short.  It is said that my plants are too tall, too much, and on City property outside my yard; that in my yard, it’s overdone.I won’t speak of my aunt passing away very recently, unexpectedly, my father’s sister.  I won’t mention how this felt, like death all over again–the pulling up of life and laying its beauty and its span on a pile of brush to be burned.  I felt the sting, the same kind of hard blow when love passes and is no more, when a loved one perishes.  I know, I understand–don’t explain it to me.  I’m old enough to get it–that my plants are not people, that the City is my government, that love never dies–that it lives on–the real beauty of living.  Beanstalks must come down regardless of the crop of beans on a recent daily basis–food for my children.  No, this is not a pity party. This is the slight bit of injustice of rights as homeowners, as free Americans, people, parents…  “The land of the free” of our own…  Really?  Is it, still??  I (we) might as well be renting.  My hopes and plans are to eventually purchase out of town, the next residential address.

I will make good of it.  This will not eat me alive.  It will not be one more thing that I hold against the City, against the anonymous person who kept going to the mayor’s office complaining of my green thumb while exaggerating her cause and complaint.  You knew it had to be about a woman, right?  A female is either a kind individual or she’s a word that rhymes with witch.  Truly.  It’s really not hard to be a team player, to be everybody’s friend, to be a genuinely loving person, but there are some females who adore being the very opposite of the qualities I just described.  They seem to get off in making everyone’s day as miserable as they willingly are of themselves.

I just bet she never grew a thing in her life, and I bet she can’t boil water or peel a potato!  She probably uses the back of a spoon–possibly her fingers.  This is not my making it good! Whoa, Betsy, be nice…  Love your enemies for your own sake, for your own good, for your own well-being, for your own peace and happiness–not so much for them.A couple of my Sorrel Roselle Hibiscus bushes, I can transplant up against the house–mighty close, but I’ll do it–to keep them.

I’ll have a good green-grass pathway on City property, even though they should pay and maintain the upkeep instead of expecting citizens to “do the job for them” if they insist on harassing townspeople.  I will also remain aware of the exact lines of ownership, keeping in mind how far plants like to stretch in their growth process; plus, I’ll be careful not to plant anything out of the ordinary on my own property where they will “find room to complain”.

I shall not, will not, keep angry and catty about this.  Where there is loss, when circumstances and things are altered against us, there are blessings stemming from every bit of sorrow and wrong doing.  I must remember this and remind myself–always–the beauty of living.

smelling the roses