Twenty seven days ago I started writing a blog post then stopped in the middle. Went about my business. Today I found it and deleted all but 3 photos. The only remaining fragment of interest in telling you anything I began writing on February 1 relates to the fact that there are dying hyacinths on my kitchen table. They'd only begun to fade when I shot these images. They're dying and I neither know what others would do with them, neither do I care, nor plan to find out.
These purple flowers were on the table for my birthday lunch last month. Back home, they became a daily reminder of how many incredible people surround me. There's so much Big Love in my world that I sometimes have to keep it to myself, so as not to sound braggy or insensitive of others' challenges. Because we all have those, too. But I think that many, many people have not been blessed with the amount of love The Lottery of This Life doled out to me. My friends sent me home with flowers after making me feel like royalty and celebrating creativity with me, and every time I've looked at them - even after all this purple lushness had dried up - I've felt a little awed at my good fortune.
I don't know what you're supposed to do with dying hyacinths. What typically happens to these flowers when their blooms have faded and dropped themselves all over the tiles? There's still life in the green stalks that aren't as interesting as the purple blooms, and so I call them "dying" but I realize they are not.
The decision NOT to quickly do an online search for "What do people do with these flowers after they don't look the way they did at their peak?" has been oddly-gratifying. The instant-gratification-lover in me is inexplicably delighted by my "old school" ponderings. No idea what others do at this point, I walk by the green stalks, erect above their purple wrapper that cloaks the pot in which they were planted, notice when the dirt is dry, smile at their waning glory, and continue to not know. Perhaps some plant them in the ground. Delightful similar things are certainly beginning to peek their heads out of the ground in the bed out front, through no effort on my part. Which lets me imagine that these MIGHT be happy there as well. If you know me at all, you feel fairly certain in your suspicion that I will never plant My Birthday Flowers in the bed out front. Or in any bed at all, for that matter. And rightly so. Some might transplant them to a bigger pot inside and consider them an experiment with nature. Still others a majority, I suspect - would immediately chuck them with the garbage in time for the pickup by the curb tomorrow morning. I don't expect to do either of these things.
For the time being, I'm going to keep the wasting remnants of my purple hyacinths right where they are on the kitchen table. My love hasn't mentioned them so I don't know if he's growing weary of seeing them still sitting there looking like they had just a bit too much fun at the party. Perhaps when I return from the final week of the pet-sitting stretch I'll resume tomorrow, they'll be gone with no word. (Though not if he reads this!) Perhaps he'll have forgotten to water them and the answer of What To Do? will be evident. The possibilities about something I typically wouldn't have even bothered to put into words for myself, much less for a reading audience, loom open-ended.
Today, I love the not knowing: what others would do, and also, what I will choose to do. Instead, I'll observe my green stalks with gratitude for my incredible life, and feel the simple pleasure of having taken the time to make a decision NOT to decide and not to know, but instead, to just enjoy enough to share it with you.