After the deluge of rain, there had been a faux spring in the south with birds chirping and trees peeking forth tiny leaves. Buds were spotted beginning to pop open and daffodils were spotted shaking out their ruffled heads.
The sky was clear and gorgeous. You could smell the clean scent of fresh earth, a bubble of joy burst from my lips in a gasp when looking at the rebirth, the renewal of hope.
I spied a small pot of miniature iris at the grocery and of course they had to be mine. I put them in a small white concrete pot that I've been saving for just the perfect occasion.
Yesterday the rain began, but it was still warm. I wandered in and out of antique and thrift stores, searching for a bit of pretties to brighten my day. I've been obsessed with aqua lately, looking for exactly the right shade for my new bedroom.
The evening was lovely with snacks of goat cheese spread, fresh french bread, blackberries and a lovely pinot grigo. I felt cosmopolitan, nay - maybe even slightly French...perhaps Belgian. It was a satisfying end to a week.
But then Sunday comes. The temperature has dropped in 24 hours from 63 to 37. And while in the great scheme of things, that's not that bad...it's harsh on a southern Belgian girl. The day is gray and overcast. The cat has decided that he must throw up in places where it's difficult to clean up. I forgot to put leftovers in the fridge last night, which in a way worked out...because - The fridge popped up (it's circa 1960) during the night and began to defrost. My hair is a mess and I realized I purchased two pairs of sweat pants instead of a sweatshirt and pants. (shut it - it's better than jammies in this cold apartment) I have boxes to pack and food to cook now that the fridge decided to defrost.
But...the irises are unaware of the horribly bad, exhausting, yucky, poopy-headed day. They are blooming like crazy and may perhaps serve as a reminder that despite it all, we choose our happiness. *wipes hair out of face* I guess I better get to it.