On an overcast morning in late April, she is bending over a cluster of blooming squill in a corner of the garden when the thought comes to her for the nth time, the nth springtime, the nth calendar year.
The wildflowers coming up in the wooded alcoves of the Lanark highlands and this shaded corner of her garden are perfect, just as they are, and so are her recording lens and camera. Herself, not so much...
She has to cultivate the eyes and attention to see things in all their natural wabi sabi suchness, the patience to wait for the wind to pause in its madcap dance and then click her shutter. Sometimes it works out, and sometimes she is rewarded only by a vivid blue blur on her memory card. Life and the seasons are works in endless progress—they are a boundless blooming, and it's all good.
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