My favourite colour is blue. I’m not picky; just about any blue will do. This morning some morning glory caught my eye, and I had to snap these shots, not only for the blue, but the blessing, the precariousness, the treasure. These are flowers to me, weeds to others, only blooming in the morning. In a few hours, their beauty will be gone.
I’ve been reading Heaven Lies East of the Mississippi; up to chapter 7, with only minor tweaks here and there. It’s been a pleasure to rediscover the thrill of a novel, one that is done (hehehe), and how close it is to that place where blue morning glory hovers delicately over the story. Of course, I need to write the sequel; no publishing prequels without having at least a rough draft of the conclusion tucked away in a flash drive or eight. But that sense of an active literary gene pulses through me, in a manner that needs to be noted just as much as the morning glory.
It’s fragile, yet dependable, for it does come back, if not each morning, then whenever the time is right.
A lovely cooling breeze wafts through open windows this morning, as jasmine tea cools, tennis rolls on; Rafael Nadal is making his way through the early rounds at Wimbledon with a little bump in the first set, but smooth sailing in subsequent games. Some sewing beckons, as does a rather dirty kitchen floor. But three more chapters of a very special novel await my attention, a story about loss, renewal, and love. Sort of like the morning glory, maybe a little like tennis. Certainly much like my life, which is draped in blue, but not in the blues.
To me, blue is the colour of love.