A poet friend wrote this salutation, "Good lovely morning," and it made me pause. Life, with its nested doll of woes, has pushed down any thought of lovely. Nonetheless, it was so good to hear. Could the day possibly be lovely? Can I borrow some of that optimism and let it allow in a modicum of spring joy? Hearing the word lovely was enough, but it reminded me that I need to go outside, step away from the desk and let nature provide that lovely wedge it does between the rug-ratted ordinariness of life and a place of calm and beauty.  I have relied upon a morning routine of reading poetry (The Slowdown, Poem A Day, Rattle, etc.) to push me in that direction. I guess I felt this one habit could keep me buoyed up and able to sustain a modicum of, if not joy then perhaps equilibrium. It hasn't done that entirely. Perhaps the poems themselves, arriving as they do in my email every day, do not themselves stray into optimism. It's true. I looked back, and it is safe to say they are mostly poignant if not wrenching. And yet, even a sad little poem can be lovely. Can it not? And besides that, I have two companions. I have a combination hot water-bottle and therapy cat, Mr. Rogers. He and his sister, Little Princess, provide more calm in their lap residencies than a person could ever need, sometimes cramming both of themselves into a single lap occupation.

Today, thanks to such a sweet salutation, I will go out into the world, travel the ten miles necessary to procure a latte, and then I'll walk by the potholes and let the rushing water hypnotize me into a neutral state. I will rely upon my legs to take me somewhere, reminding me I am more than a mind. I am body.  I must take that body out into the day and shake off whatever tries to carry itself into the next day. Not to mention the fact that if you do not keep moving, you tend to become the tin man (or woman). Yes, movement, nature!
Let it provide the calm that is often lost in everyday chaos.

​Tell yourself this too and have a good lovely day.

The tulip farm was a good 40 minutes south of Portland. We rode all the way with the windshield wipers on fast. Earlier my son and had I walked up to New Seasons, a small grocery, and asked a manager for advice. He directed us to the seasonal aisle. I knew they had to be there: plastic ponchos in little plastic envelopes the size of party invitations.

I was surprised to see the farm emerging not so much as a farm but a small amusement park. Just for the record, I hate, have always hated, forced fun. But stepping out into the muddy parking lot and making my way to the gift shop -- you had to enter through the shop--I could see all the vendors and heavily hawked fun was optional. I eschewed the many ways to spend money, not because I was on a budget (God knows I can be quite the spendthrift). I was looking for peacefulness and it was the space inside the weather, inside the untented area looking out that made me pause before meandering in the fields.

I stood looking out. The fields were in rows of course and the colors varied and the varieties I suppose. I don't know much about tulips except what I'd read somewhere; that when you put them in a vase you should only put an inch or so of water because the tulips tend to drink too much water and flop over. God knows why I remember this, but I wondered about them, worried about them in a motherly way, with this onslaught of rain. Still, even though I was getting wetter and wetter I enjoyed walking along the rows and trying not to step into the deep rivulets. It was peaceful.

I saw two men who appeared to be waiting as if for a bus, just standing with their umbrellas and smiling, as if thinking of how grateful they were to be there, standing quietly in the rain. I supposed they were waiting for their kids or girlfriends. With the floral backdrop ranging from yellow to purple there was something about these two men, patiently standing in the mud, that gave me hope that people were not quite as doomed as I'd begun to think. They had such a quiet composure and happiness about them. I thought I was happy until I saw them, but I was waiting for my grown kids and perhaps the rain had soaked through enough for me to wonder if there was a vendor who sold Irish coffee. They, in their stalwart and kindly way, helped me shrug off any thoughts but the beauty of being there. I was grateful for that day of being drenched, and partly because of them.