From a friend's garden of spring blooms. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.
A Kansas City friend and I met in Columbia recently. She brought me the best kind of flowers: Cut from her own garden and in a glass vessel from her home.
Add to that spirited conversation over coffee (me) and tea (her) on a sunny, warm day .... yes, 'tis spring.
This is my friend who packed 6000 condoms in her suitcase on a volunteer mission to a country whose people suffer from a very high STI rate and a shortage of just about everything else.
Azalea Festival. Semmes, Alabama. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.
When I pulled onto the wet-grass ersatz parking lot, I saw folks carrying to their cars green plants. Azaleas, I presumed.
I wasn't really at the 2022 Azalea Festival for the azaleas. I have no yard; no garden. I was there for the sunshiney, springtime-in-the-offing, getting-back-to-some-kinda-normal-maybe, some live music maybe, and the potential for kettle corn.
Azalea Festival. Semmes, Alabama. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.
Spoiler alert: No kettle corn. Oh, there was a vendor selling some bags of what they might have tried to pass off as kettle corn, but no, I didn't bite on that bait. For one, some of the kernels were dyed green. Pffft. You don't do that to kettle corn. You just don't.
Azalea Festival. Semmes, Alabama. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.
I'm not a Christian, but the most endearing thing I saw at the festival was a Christ, standing between a purple-draped crucifix and a papier mâché cave, offering hugs with wide open arms to all passersby. I saw him enfold a man into his arms into a big ol' Jesus hug.
Jesus at the Azalea Festival. Semmes, Alabama. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.
Azalea Festival. Semmes, Alabama. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.
What a beautiful idea.
The scene also took me back to a day at the Sprouts Market in El Paso in 2016 or maybe early 2017. Trump had won the presidency, all sorts of racist and aggressive effluvia had poured out from the American sewer systems, and families fleeing untenable lives in Central America were being ripped apart, their children stolen from their parents.
While I walked between the big bins of fresh vegetables that day in El Paso, the Muzak played some kinda tune, maybe from back in the decades of the Vietnam War-Richard Nixon-Watergate-Oliver North-and-Iran-Contra, and this thought came: "I need a hug."
I hope Azalea Jesus gave many hugs at the festival.
The city of Semmes recently rebranded itself with a new logo and stuff. This resulted in the purchase of lots of swag for residents and visitors: pens, magnets, fans, and the like. I availed myself of some bounty.
It was nice to see kiddos out doing what kiddos do on a sunny festival day.
Azalea Festival. Semmes, Alabama. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.
The trees haven't leafed out yet, but there are several varieties of wildflowers waving in the breeze - deep purples, some flashes of underside-fuschia, white, periwinkle blue.
Dismembered carcasses of trees pounded by last year's flooding lay atop the grasses.
Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
Oh, where is Spring?
Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
It snowed on Easter.
Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
Unacceptable.
Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
I had to take matters into my own hands.
Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
On Monday, I picked up a bouquet of Spring from the local grocer. I put it next to the long-ago deflowered paper whites from official winter, which I clip every once in awhile to create the illusion of Spring to come.
Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
No, no, no, no. I am finished with winters in cold lands.
Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
I am already planning my next annual home. It will be a warm and sunny place.
In the meantime, these yellow and red-cheeked tulips sustain my spirit.
I look at these photos from a couple of days in May, and a slow, deep exhale of appreciation escapes me.
UTEP, El Paso, Texas. May 2017.
Damn.
UTEP, El Paso, Texas. May 2017.
I am reminded of a story. Years ago, I tackled the lack of sidewalks in the community where I lived at the time. I said sheepishly to my friend, "I know it's not a super important issue, but ...."
My friend stopped me right there and told me that even the simplest things can have a major impact on others. She gave me the example of Ladybird Johnson and the bluebells. Since then, I have witnessed other testimonies to the power of small and beautiful.
So it is with UTEP's thoughtful, intentional investment in the beauty of its campus. When we walk in the midst of such beauty, it soothes, smooths, and refreshes our spirits.
Ocotillo in April, Chihuahuan Desert Gardens, UTEP, El Paso, Texas.
The stalky ocotillo may be my favorite desert plant. Seeing these April ocotillos at UTEP's Chihuahuan Desert Gardens was like seeing a cherished friend.
When dormant, the ocotillo is just a spiny, angular, unattractive reedy collection of gray stalks. But when it blooms and when it leafs out, oh, I admire how it preens so prettily against the sky.
Ocotillo in April, Chihuahuan Desert Gardens, UTEP, El Paso, Texas.
