It’s Saturday, and I planted daffodil bulbs and poppy seeds in the front yard.

But you must not imagine me out there with cute gardening gloves, a sun hat and butterflies flitting around.  Well, there was a butterfly.  But Otherwise, I’m not that kind of gardener.  My gardening goes along with my life.  Kind of spur of the moment, not according to the directions, and usually interrupted by something.  So, no cute gardening gloves, and no sun hat.  I just went out there with our old shovel and dug up whatever of the ground wasn’t hard as a rock, and plopped in the bulbs and the seeds.  Until our dog, who had finally found a weakness in the perimeter fence, as we suspected she would, came streaking past me into the front yard and I dropped the shovel and the bulbs and went running after her.

Will the bulbs grow?  Of course they will.  You don’t really have to follow the planting instructions.  I learned that last year.  And the seeds will grow, miraculously, magically, from tiny black specks to bushy green plants with flaming poppies.  Spring will come, and they will all bloom, beautifully.

And us?  Will we survive until spring?  Will we bloom? (Will Peter get through his sophomore year?  Will Joseph survive sixth grade?  Will Silas find a direction for his life-after-academics?  Will Obamacare make it?)

Hm.  We aren’t as straight forward as the daffodil bulbs, we humans.  We’re a bit trickier to handle.  Our blooming is more elusive and less obvious.  Our needs are deeper, way deeper than earth and water and sun.  But we are more worth the effort.


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