The weather was especially lovely the past few days. The sun was out, the birds were active, and green was shooting up out of the remaining fallen leaves. I took Ivy for a walk, a slow stroll down a long row of houses. She sniffed until she found just the right spot, and as she prepared herself at the edge of a lawn, near the street, atop a pile of leaves, I heard a voice coming from the home. I saw a woman crouching by her open window speaking words I couldn’t quite comprehend. Stunned, I asked her what she said. She repeated, “My property is not your dog’s toilet.” I remained calm and held up the green bag indicating I would be sure to pick it up. She told me that after I did so, I should wipe my hand over the spot and see what happens.
I calmly walked on, taking another route home—one that would not pass by the grey colonial and the woman at the window. I didn’t cry, but that might have been an option. I felt her words in my body. In my heart, more directly. I wondered about her and her anger, balancing it between my hurt and moving forward.
There is often beauty that shoots up out of pain. If given enough time, it shows itself. It can’t help it. Like the primrose, the green takes precedence over its colorless surroundings. The iris, as well, defies its surroundings, and pops with hope of what’s to come.
Even my garden angel shines more brightly when the sun reflects off it.
I think of my friend, Cathy, who gifted me many of the perennials (and the angel) in my garden. I am reminded of joy and hope, of kindness and understanding. And, when the atmosphere feels harsh and even ugly, I remember the power of beauty, and of the the crocuses, which last week were a single bloom, but now take over a good portion of a neighborhood property.
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