From Chaos to Connection

 

    My niece announced on social media that she wrote and published a book. When I read the post, I reacted with quiet jealously. I coiled inside myself like nine-year-old me when my friend stepped onto the school bus wearing the prettiest dress I had ever seen -- clumps of purple grapes and green leaves splashed against an off-white fabric.

    I am not proud of those reactions. For now, I will skip over the childhood longings and move on to my niece's exciting, shattering news. Before my readers flail me with a big stick, please know that I congratulated Lori, and that I created my own social media post touting her accomplishment, so my friends could see. 

    Nevertheless, I felt a twinge of despair, and this is why:

The saddest words ever written or said? It's a matter of perception.

 

    Out of the blue, I needed to read some poetry, which is weird, because I rarely read poetry, nor do I write poetry. I have penned a few verses mostly in song, but I am not a poet. Nevertheless, when an inner voice commands, I comply. So, I searched for a book I bought in my twenties, back in the day when I belonged to a mail-order book club. 

    After scanning several of my bookshelves, I held in my hands The Treasury of American Poetry, selected by Nancy Sullivan. I laid it atop the tall stack of books on my nightstand. 

    That night, I turned the pages to find few lines that held my attention. Undeterred, I plowed through the murk, knowing that in those eight-hundred and thirty-eight pages, I would find, well, I don't know what I expected to find, but when I found it, I would know. Over the next couple of weeks, I touched the poems of Anne Bradstreet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, only to wonder if I could possibly continue on this curious mission. 

    Then, I hit pay dirt.

Butterflies, Milkweed, and Miracles

 

A milkweed grew up in our front yard, right in front of the house, and it came up as a volunteer. Milkweed, I learned, is the only host plant for Monarch butterflies. Its blooms are various colors, but the ones in our yard were orange, and hungry caterpillars swarmed about it to eat and be satisfied, although it seemed as though their tummies were never full. These colorful, striped worms nibbled away at all the foliage and stripped the plant of its greenery. By the time they finished, only the stems remained.