Feeling fragile from all going on in our country the past days, we sought solace in the dark skies and sea wrack littering Legoe Bay.

Later, an afternoon of digging provided an antidote to sorrow.

Watching Igor and Amanda planting daffodil bulbs along the curves of our lavender “serpent” I recalled Kay Ryan’s poem, The Best of It.

However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn’t matter that
our acre’s down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we’d rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.

Last night, wanting to believe in that promise of one bean, but still despondent I lay down, willing myself to sleep. It’s all so surreal, I thought as I dozed off. Maybe life’s all just a meaningless shadow-play concocted from paper cut-outs and candles, masterminded by clever puppeteers.

I opened my eyes this morning and gazed at the bedroom wall. A flickering projection of rose vines, leaves and hips suddenly appeared, a cinema of waving monochromatic shapes quivered and hovered silently.

As if on cue, Nature had opened a secret, new window where before there was none.

The image brightened and faded and brightened again as clouds blew across the sky, the wind shivering the foliage outside.

After about ten minutes the sun shifted and the shadow-play disappeared, fading once again to invisibility. It was an unforgettable, illuminating vision.

The smell of coffee wafted in from the kitchen.

A new day.

When one window closes, another opens.

It was a helluva week. Lots to grieve about.

Avanti! There’s work to do.

—Susan Dworski

top image: Swahili Chic: The Feng Shui of Africa by Bibi Jordan