These violas are a testament to the truth that even in October, the garden center is still a dangerous place for me to be, even if only stopping to buy a couple bags of dirt. Who knew I would be confronted with flats full of one of my favorite little flowers?
As I've mentioned here previously, we live along a well-traveled and busy road. This makes for noise, some unusual encounters, and a whole lot of litter. Sometimes people break down and need our help, and once when I was not at home a man stopped in wanting to talk about our garden and how we got a certain flower to grow, and the poor soul was stuck talking to the Mister, who is the carpenter and not the gardener. I hoped the man would come back so I could have a nice garden chat, but he didn't.
Anyway, the other day I was taking my life in my hands by planting bulbs out by the roadside as an occasional car flew past exceeding not just the speed limit, but the speed of light. As I tossed an empty cigarette pack out of the way (could someone enlighten me on how people come to the conclusion that it is acceptable to toss trash out of their car windows?) a rather pessimistic thought came to mind. That thought was, why bother? Even though I enjoy daffodils with a passion, is it really worth it to plant little clumps at the edge of our driveway where they will catch the fast food wrappers from unappreciative souls? Isn't there something more substantial I could be doing? But then I thought of how so many women possess this wonderful trait that God has given each of us which motivates us to create small acts of beauty. It's the reason why I will visit my single-lady cousin and find a delicate antique tea cup on her counter containing a pleasing flower arrangement, while my widowed uncle thinks a half-burnt candle and empty mug on top of a weathered hunting magazine is just fine to look at every day. When I drive down the road and see the lovely clumps of flowers around lamp posts and mail boxes, it's likely they were planted by another woman who appreciates small touches of prettiness. The quilt hanging on the wall in our church entrance way? Created and hung there by women, no doubt. Like tiny little violets persevering in the cooler months, our smallest moments of artistry are a tribute to the Master Artist, and give everyone who sees them a message that we care. Even about the seemingly small things.
This is not to say that men don't care about small acts of beauty, they just create them differently. Like when a man walking along our road saw the Mister bringing in the mail and asked him for a lighter. The Mister didn't have a lighter, but he did offer the unemployed man some work. A random act of beauty of a different variety.
Planting bulbs in the fall always helps instill me with a little hope for the future. Winter is but for a season, and new life will spring from these bulbs (catch the pun?) months from now when after a winter of stark gray I'll be itching for something colorful and fragrant.