I open my door, and I'm in the woods. The sheer wonder of it nearly bruises my heart with the memories of camping trips: my own childhood travels and trips with my growing family. I stand there and look over our trees, hear the birds sing, and inside I am singing along.
How does a person contain such joy? This is the reason I quit writing in my blog for so long. It seems that each day all I wanted to do was sit down and write, "Another day in paradise. How can I describe how lucky I feel?" And so I wrote nothing, but I felt much.
The Spring rains are light this year, coming in the evening and watering my growing iris plants. They should be blooming by the time Ellen arrives a week from Monday. There are over a hundred of them, gathered in merry bands beneath the pines, beside the lane, near the steps. Their colors will add a glory to the Spring, and an extra bounty for our table.
Riches we have here, once dreamed of, but never expected. And yet, so often did I quote Robert Browning's famous line, "A man's reach must exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?"