Dear Bendigo: For sore eyes

There’s a small terracotta pot by our back door with three daffodils growing in it. 

I have a vague memory of planting the bulbs, but it certainly wasn’t this year. 

The blooms have sheet-white petals and yolk-orange centres. They’re the colour of eggs.  

And just like a newly-laid egg, they’re a wonderful mystery to me, because I don’t believe I’ve even watered the pot. 

It’s one of those small things in our home life that we live with, walk by on a daily basis, but don’t see... 

This seemingly empty pot of dirt by the back door.

Why do we do that? Why do we fail to see the inanimate objects of domestic life? 

We don’t have to be short-sighted to live with blind spots. 

But now, that pot is something to focus on while I stare out the window, washing the dishes. 

While I sit under the back veranda, drinking tea. While I sit.

It reminds me of a quote I once read somewhere… nature doesn’t hurry and yet everything is achieved.

I’m ashamed to say there’s been many times I’ve forgone the chance to plant something new, thinking, but it takes too long to flower/fruit/grow. Instant gratification and gardening don’t mix.

These daffodils are a small wonder in my life this week. And I wonder if they know, they came just when they were needed. 

They have impeccable timing. 

For there’s been much staring off into space, and it’s comforting to see them there, their soldier-straight stems defying the breeze in that terracotta pot.

Something else unseen and unknown revealed itself these past days. Something fearful to steal sleep. 

It’s true, that life is at once cruel and beautiful. And somehow, inexplicably, the beauty can shine so bright in times of crisis. 

Maybe it’s because the contrast is so great? 

Life is bright orange on blinding white.

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