Just bitchin'

Lilacs

bloglilac1

There have always been lilacs.

When I was a child, in the first home I recall, they bordered our yard.

As our truncated, customized version of a family moved from locale to locale, they were the first things my mother would plant. It didn’t matter that it might take years before their piquant blossoms would show; that we would have moved on long before the flowers appeared.

There had to be lilacs taking root while we lived wherever we lived, whenever we lived.

When we finally did put down roots of our own, lilacs thrived.

They grew in purple profusion, spilling their heady scent into our lungs, into our dreams, into our souls, into the languid California nights. The sultry heat of the Southwest drew forth flowers and fragrance that would forever be associated with the lessons of childhood.

And one of the most important was illustrated…by lilacs.

It started as a game.

“Find the five-petaled blossom.”

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I and my siblings would scour the heavy panicles of purple or pink or cream or yellow to find…

…the mutant.

Among the overwhelming presence of tiny, four-petaled flowers would lurk the stranger in their midst. The five- or even six-petaled bloom. It was special. Strange. Something to be sought. Something marvel-worthy.

“It stands out,” my mother instructed us. “It does not fit in. It will never be ‘normal.’ But…it is beautiful. It excels the norm. But it will always stand alone.”

Excelling the norm became our motto.

Standing alone became our fate.

My mother raised us.

Lilacs all.

bloglilac3.

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poem

Strange

megfallon2

Little Meg Fallon is a beautiful one
only when compared to none.

An airy look about her face,
a different kind of inhuman grace.

She is quiet and alone all of her days,
unable to navigate the social maze.

Instructors find her strange to teach,
a quicksilver mind they just can’t reach.

But little Meg knows deep in her heart
lessons worth learning require an art;

a stillness of soul at which she excels;
a talent for reading natural spells.

Education came in a secret way,
while in a snow-bound wood one day.

The exquisite drifting of the flakes that fell
imparted a knowledge she never will tell.

Such patterns she saw by sitting so still
will never be transferred to paper by quill.

The teachings of books and lectures dry
cannot touch what is taught by watching the sky.

An instructor as vast as the atmosphere,
open to children with the talent to hear.

So little Meg reads what nature has written
and smiles to herself like a satisfied kitten.

A mind full of magic she cannot share;
such children of mystery need special care.
megfallon

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