I wonder how many people talk to flowers, as I do, and sometimes hear them talking back.

Some unhappy reader messaged me today and suggested I was either stupid or crazy, and I thought about it, and perhaps both are true.

I don’t usually even know the names of the flowers, but I see expressions in them and their attitudes. Like Pansies, the Boston Terriers of flowers.

Why do I wonder whether anyone would want to communicate with someone they thought was stupid and crazy?

How could I be expected to understand? These days, I think the crazy ones are the only ones who are sane.

On the other hand, do sane and rational people speak to flowers and hear them speak? I don’t know.

Nasturtiums are on my mind this week. They are dancers.

I will plant many of them in my new garden bed, and I chose them as the centerpiece of my memorial to the children killed in our schools.

 

 

My nasturtiums are struggling,  all pale and tangled up and rotting, and I spent an hour or so fending off mosquitoes outside and dead-heading and trimming and clipping the flowers I got. They need help; I’ve been online searching for ways of bringing troubled flowers back.

I feel they are talking to me as I pluck some and straighten others. Like the one above,  the most bizarre, they said, ” keep me, young fellow, I’m pretty tough. I’m a leader.”

The second one immediately above started quoting from Robert Frost’s poem Birches: “One could be worse than be a swinger of birches,” I don’t even like this poem or understand it. I can’t imagine why it was in my head. I am crazy, I guess. I’m mentally ill, but that isn’t always the same.

 

 

And then, there was this couple, “we are just starting,” the yellow one said to me, “we are in love. give us a chance to live.” Her spouse or partner said nothing. I spared them the scissors.

Maria says new flowers are sprouting up in the re-arrangement; they need some care and attention. They will get that; I want them to live and grow. More trimming and deadheading tomorrow.

In other news, I was incredibly proud of Zinnia today; she was a big hit at the Mansion’s Memory Care Unit. She and I are going to Bishop Maginn High School on Tuesday to help calm the students who think of safety more than homework. I think Zinnia will help.

She is a smile and warmth machine.

It was a full week and more to come.

Tonight, I’m trying a new Sleep Apnea mask called a hybrid; it’s lighter than most masks, but it covers both the mouth and the nose, which is essential for me as my big mouth tends to open at night while I am sleeping, throwing off my apnea machine and waking me up. This mask should help; the apnea masks have been a big success for me.

I’ll write about how it works; I am hopeful.

My daughter Emma and I agreed that we should cancel our long-awaited reunion this weekend; we were looking forward to seeing each other after more than two years due to the pandemic.

She came down with a fever.

We are already planning to move the trip to July. We’ll do it; I am anxious to see my granddaughter Robin and reacquaint ourselves with one another.

This has been an emotional week, and Maria and I are both looking to chill, read, take create and rest. In one sense, we will get some of the quiet we need. Sometimes you get what you need in the most unexpected ways.

Good news: You might remember my talk with our young, creative shearer, Ian. I urged him to try out his creative wings and not simply accept working at a slate mill rather than writing the poetry he is so eager to write.

You can do both, I said, but giving up the poetry will make you sad and hollow. He said he would think about it, and he has.  He called me this week, and we have been talking. He’s coming over this weekend to speak to me about what I said; he’s bringing some poetry. I spent a couple of hours scanning for poetry clubs, workshops, and online Zoom weekly poetry readings.

I found three near him, called him, and read him the list. He’s excited; he’s online right now looking at info about the clubs; he said he had never heard of them.

 

 

The Internet, I told him, has sparked a big poetry revival among the young. Young poets encourage and support one another. He needn’t be alone in this. If he wants to work cutting slate, that’s his business. Most poets (and shearers) have day jobs.

But he doesn’t have to give up on his poetry.

This is music to my ears, and I’m happy he’s coming to talk to me. Sometimes you have to plant a seed and then step back and watch it grow.

So a bittersweet ending to a rough week.  There were dark clouds and light clouds.

I believe that life is good, and I am full of hope. Doing good is the only weapon that I have.