I put my amaryllis bulbs on a heating pad back in December. It was after Christmas, of course, late, delayed, like I missed the whole thing, Christmas, that is. I'd ordered them in November, of course, late delayed, when all the red and white ones in the catalogue were sold out.

I have three bulbs in my pantry I haven't even put in pots.

Not long after I put these dead looking bulbs in pots and put them on my little heating pad we had that cold snap and don't think they didn't know about it. Those stubborn little bulbs didn't budge. "Uh, uh, no way," they seemed to say, "we're not coming out until this stuff goes away." The stuff they were referring to was the cold.

I can't explain it. I don't know what it means, but when I catch a glimpse of these bulbs when I'm walking through the room, I hear something.

I don't hear it with my ears. I hear it through nerve endings in my chest. It's a place that is shaped like an upside down bow. The tips of the bow are at the shoulders and the rest of the bow is over my heart and lungs. And when the bulbs speak that part of me is a receptacle of pleasure and tranquility.

I don't know what they're saying, but it has to do with love, patience, hope, transience.

I can't believe the way these things are growing. The way the big sister is climbing out and heading toward the light and the little sister is nestled under her shadow, cuddled close. Somebody always has to go first, but I think it's easier to go first if there's someone behind us watching us, depending on us, believing we know what we're doing and that we'll make it.










Today we're in the ice storm. I woke up early because I get excited at the prospect of frozen precipitation and the thought of missing it is more than I can bear. I came into my office and turned on the light beside my computer and began typing, writing down my dream. I decided to light a candle and put some lavendar in my exxential oils bowl and soon my little office was filled with the aroma of creativity.
"Fooey on dreams," I said to myself. I'm going to check on my amaryllis bulb. I took my camera into the den where she sits on the window sill. I snapped a few photos and looking at them I noticed that big sister has pulled way out in front. And little sister is reaching, strengthened, thriving; moving toward the light. "That's good," I thought to myself, "now I think I'll go look at the snow."