Paths and flowers, paths and flowers. There’s a guy working in our street, replacing fences with beautiful metal railings like the ones that were here when the houses were built 100 years ago (the metal was all requisitioned during one of the wars). He’s going to give us a quote and yesterday he said he’d ask a mate to quote for a new path. But I like the path I have. It’s cracked. And, in the cracks grow little wild violets, the children of some that I was given by my teachers’ mother. And, as I walk down the street, I see that Irene’s violets are spreading in little clumps in little crannies. When I see them I smile. They have a life of their own and it’s nothing to do with smartness or properness or staying in their allotted place. That resonates.
And today a friend sent me this: