I ventured out briefly this afternoon. Most of my yard is about an inch deep in standing water. An impromptu creek has been running through the back yard for several days.
It has looked, through my window, like the depths of winter. Emily Dickinson called November the Norway of the year; this end of December seems like Lear's blasted heath. Troubles have piled up indoors; sleep has been sporadic; friends have been too busy.
Usually I drag myself outside to do something- anything- to break the drip of worry. Being monsoonized makes that impossible.
But today I noticed my neighbor's camellia- always wanton, swayed by the slightest whispered nothings on the breeze and a few warm days- was popping out flowers. So I grabbed my clippers and now have two vases full, nice mixes of pink and red.
I don't know what it is about camellias; I have always adored them. In a Seattle junk shop twenty years ago, I picked up a beautiful lamp painted in red camellias. Recently, after a long separation, it was returned to me. Life is good in these small ways, giving a little respite before slipping the lead into the glove for another round.