Neighbors...

When I opened my door this morning, there was a bouquet of wild flowers in a vase with a note. It read, "With Love." An anonymous gift. It was an absolutely beautiful way to start the day. I set the vase on the kitchen counter and admired the variety of colors. Wildflowers are weeds, perhaps something to be discarded. But even weeds have value. All flowers in God's garden have purpose.

I live on a bend in the road, surrounded by seniors and people with disabilities. Time passes. Seniors in their eighties living next door have now become seniors in their nineties living next door. From afar, I observe them. Some have families. Some are alone. People with disabilities live here as well. I am one of them. In life, some people are hothouse roses, absolutely perfect. Some people are imported tulips, expensive but always in demand. My neighbors and I are the weeds growing wild. We're not necessarily very popular. But, if you take the time, you can appreciate our unique kind of beauty.

Having assured myself that the bouquet had enough water, I walked outside. Oh, dear reader, I could smell the snow in the air! And the clouds were thick, and literally grey and silver. The wind blowing through my hair reminded me of an Emily Dickinson poem. I, too, have never seen the moor. But, on this glorious day, I could imagine what the moors are like. Have you ever seen the heather growing in the distance?

It's so quiet here, except for the sounds of Nature. The town is small. I often bump into my doctor and his wife walking their white-haired dog. My doctor lives by the bridge in the center of town. I know all the merchants by name. They all know me. Life here is intimate.

Little by little, I will introduce you, dear reader, to the cast of characters that make up this living Thornton Wilder play. I wrapped the sweater around my arms and walked back home, slowly. The flowers were waiting for me on the counter. And I could feel the love.