Down on the Flowers

This week is the first week of classes at Palm Beach State College. I am enrolled in a photography class and our assignment this week was to bring in a collection of photos of "things."

I am also taking PLANT IDENTIFICATION 1 (CULTIVATED PLANTS). Really...that's the name. On Tuesday night we ranged all over the campus, clipping pieces off of all the species of ACANTHACEAE to dry for a plant collection and there were no blooms on the Ruellia tweediana we found. Well, I happen to have lots of Ruellia tweediana in my yard because it grows anywhere there is no water, no soil and lots of weeds...{and my yard is full of places like that} and so I collected a handful of their flowers today so that I could dry them and share them with everyone else.

Combining both classes, I took some photos of the flowers. As I finished, this little bit of down blew over. It was a cool combination--delicate flower petals and weightless white puff.

The cat is sleeping on the top of the big leather sofa chair I'm sitting on. She has had a long day--Mary has left and she has followed Nathan and me around all afternoon. I tried to fill in, but after trying to snuggle with her, she kind of gave up and just went to sleep. The soft grey ripples in her fur remind me of the soft grey-purple flutter of the Ruellia tweediana blossoms that are now (three days later) silk-thin, edge-flared triangles between the pages of an old telephone book which is resting beneath three dozen of the Eyewitness volumes that I refuse to part with . . . even though they are definitely not books that I would sit down and spend the afternoon with. I have given away a few duplicates that I've somehow acquired, but {like the "Nine Bowls of Soup" ichthyosaur} I "can't break up the set." And every now and again, Nathan will pull a stack of them into his room and spend a month going slowly back through his favorites.

I like a good mix, I suppose. Brent just kissed my forehead and told me not to stay up too late. It is 9:06pm and he is wisely heading off for bed.

It is 7:30 am on Monday. The cat woke me up by scratching on our bedroom door. She needed food and attention. Nate has decided that he's not going to come when Cat scratches his door. I suppose that that is a good idea--less need to repaint and repair bedroom doors. But . . . there's not really any other way that Cat can let me know she needs something--attention, food, water. I like that she wants to communicate with me. It's like when people ignore their dogs and so they start barking constantly--or children that feel so starved for attention that they misbehave just so that they can interact with their parents (even if it is only to be punished for their "wrong" actions--the soggy potato chip syndrome). Being available, even if only to listen for a moment, is a difficult thing--especially because young children are particularly small and tend to want you when you feel the busiest--or have just found a moment for yourself.

I remember when my two daughters were 3 and 4 years old. If I was up and doing dishes or vacuuming or making beds, then they were content to play nearby. When I was able to sit down--to type up a paper (both my husband and I were in graduate school at the same time) or fold the laundry or read--then they immediately needed my undivided attention. One morning I was mopping the kitchen floor and they decided that they couldn't be seperated from me. They tried to follow me about the kitchen as I mopped, making it impossible (at least as far as I was aware) for me to get the floor clean. I set them both on bar stools. So there they perched at the doorway to the kitchen, sobbing as if their hearts were going to break. "Mom, we want to be with you. We want to be with you."

Even at the time, as I wondered what fancy had taken them, I was complimented by the fact that they liked me, felt comfortable with me, loved me--and wanted, more than anything else at that moment, to be close to me. They are now both grown up with young families of their own. I will listen with keen interest as they interact with their children so their children feel comfortable--and want to be near them.