I always want flowers. I would have fresh cut flowers in my house every day if that wouldn't become too expensive. And I would have more flowers growing in my yard than I have these past springs and summers since we've lived in this house. But I'm not very good with them--they don't seem to flourish.
It strikes me as being like bipolar disorder: the mania of a profusion of fresh cut flowers, flowers every day that cost more and more, and the depression of flowers outside not flourishing. Perhaps this is why I hang on so tightly to my memories of the old ladies' roses and my aunt's wild violets. These memories remind me that thriving is possible even in the darkest times, and that fresh cut flowers can come from one's own yard--perhaps not in manic profusion, but in simple, lovely bunches, balanced and good.