Peonies

At dawn I walk our tri-color spaniel down the mountain lane and tug the warm blue fleece robe against my throat to block the early morning chill. As Cheyenne trots and sniffs, I am drawn to the peonies in a neighbor's wild garden. I associate peonies with my mid-western childhood, the large bushes barely able to hold the enormous flower heads bobbing in a breeze. Today beside the wire fence, two small plants attempt to keep their blooms aloft. One sturdy stem boasts five pink blooms from bud to dropping petals. Cheyenne stands with me as I kneel.

I take a cleansing breath and inhale: first the subtle blush of the pink peony, soft and gentle like a newborn baby, then the burgundy ‘s robust and hearty perfume. I stand to face the bright sunlight beaming through the forest at the end of the lane. In such a simple moment, immense joy pulses through me. I am grateful to witness the beauty of the peonies and realize they would have gone right on being beautiful whether I saw or sniffed them or not. They do what they do, create what is their essence to create. As I turn to walk home, I consider my essence and what it is for me to create. I feel charged for my day of writing and revising, eager to begin.