I stepped outside this twentieth day of May into snow—a foot high drift of cottonwood seeds piled against the door. White, downy fluff danced in whirlwinds. Snagged on the bushes. Starred the meadow grass.
I’d never seen a cottonwood seed blizzard before. My first thought—what fun. My second thought—get the broom. But sweeping simply urged the cottonwood seeds into greater frenzy or spun them into incorrigible strands. Meanwhile, more and more fell from the sky.
So there I was, wielding the broom this way and that, until I stopped, struck by the ridiculous. I laughed at my absurd need to control something beyond my control. And something so unimportant. So what if cottonwood seeds blew into my house? So what if they stuck to my shoes? Who wouldn’t want to wade through magic?
So I surrendered. I threw down the broom and danced with the seeds.
7:30 BELLS Posts run every Tuesday.