Bonnie is helping me remember.
This careful tending she requires invites me to slow down, to focus outward and not on my unruly thoughts; taking care of her does not allow time for brooding.
She likes to be outside, to lie in the sun. A great deal of time is spent sniffing the grasses and she has made an enemy of the dandelions—stalking and striking like a giant cobra until her whiskers are white with fluffy seeds. When I delight in her silly antics, I am kin to St. Francis and I understand why he is said to have preached to the birds.
So I am her glad companion, sitting in the sun and letting spring sing her song around me. I had forgotten the way birdsong makes the air lighter, and the poetry of the wind in the trees. When I close my eyes I can hear the hum of the bumblebee’s wings as she collects her sweetness. To stretch out in fresh-cut grass under a tent of blue sky is to wonder at my own smallness.
And the lilac. Yesterday as we walked together through the back yard I smelled her perfume. The blooms have not yet fully unfolded, but the tight panicles seemed to me like fingers beckoning us closer. So I pulled out the kitchen step stool and my camera and had a closer look.
This, the lens of joy.