As I walked to the mailbox, the wildflowers caught my eye. Lupine, wild roses, and bits of blue I couldn't name lined our long gravel driveway like a watercolor quietly painted overnight.
I wasn't in a hurry, so I walked back to the barn, grabbed some clippers, and wandered. I clipped from the garden, from the edge of the meadow, from the old cutting bed near the coffee shed. A white peony. A single rhododendron, pale and soft as breath. I didn't rush. I didn't plan. I just noticed.
This little window of color, like this current season of life—won't last.
My time here in Maine is coming to an end, and I can feel it. There's some sadness, yes, but more than that, reverence. This special place, which we call Hillside Farm, has given me so much. It's forever changed me.
I packed my flowery haul back inside and crafted a small bouquet on the kitchen island. Simple, wild, elegant—Martha Stewart might even approve. With the leftovers, I filled little bud vases and scattered them around the house—quiet reminders of beauty in every room.
Now, as I write, the sun is down. The fireflies are out. They flash like diamonds across the meadow—fleeting, brilliant, unrepeatable.
Just like these days.
There's something sacred about allowing this place to say goodbye and not rushing out, not numbing the ache, but walking slowly through what remains. I'm paying attention and letting my gratitude blossom, even as this season changes.
No looking back. No jumping ahead. Just welcoming this beautiful moment—right here, right now.
Reflection for You
Is there something simple around you right now, a sound, a scent, a glimpse of color that you've been too busy to notice? Please notice, and when you do, be grateful.
What a wonderful writer you are! It's such an art, Mike. Your ability to describe scenes around you
is beyond. Never quit writing. I loved it so much.
As always, so beautiful is your written painting of life to this medium. Thank you for sharing!