You may remember that this lily began at its end; when I opened it to plant, it had already grown and died.
It bloomed again shortly after being planted and watered.
Now, it falls over its pot, lifeless but still beautiful.
If you were to sit in my dining room, you might think it strange that I have a dead plant.
But I think it is beautiful.
I haven’t been able to part with these dried roses. They do not mean death to me. Their papery petals and brittle leaves that crumble if touched are a symbol of fragility; their aged and faded flowers a reminder of the movement of time.
There will come a day when I will replace this plant that did not survive with a fresh and green and thriving one. But for now, I enjoy its loveliness just the way it is.
When it came in through the garage, I screeched like it was trying to attack me.
My ten-year-old son tried to save me by swatting at it. He’s my hero.
But it was bedtime, so I said let it be and we’d get it in the morning. Then I forgot about the moth.
This morning, the moth was in the bathtub. Before running for the fly swatter, I stopped for a minute and looked at it. It had a surprisingly pretty pattern on its wings.
First, I captured it with my camera. Then, I captured it with a cup and set it free.
(*Please note: The focus in the photo is deliberately softened to make the moth appear less bug-like; those little legs give me the creeps!)
If I’ve learned one thing in my 38 years on this incredible planet, it’s that I need to appreciate life’s little details. It’s what grounds me and what calms me. It’s what calls to me when I write. It’s also the basis of my photography (I run and Etsy shop called Sand and Petals).
Whether it’s the light through the window, the glitter in the sand, or the giggles from my children, taking a minute to wonder at little miracles is what it’s all about.
I hope you’ll join me in celebrating these minute moments.