One of my gifts for Mothers Day was a bunch of tulips. They were a delightful surprise when I found them on my front porch. I took them out of their box, trimmed their stems and put them into water, fragile, tight buds, petals held together like small pastel hugs, no clue of their real color. By the next morning, buds began to turn to blooms and the next few days were a wonder of unfolding deep magenta, peach, orange and apricot plus buttery yellows punctuated with a few creamy white blossoms. My tulips were lovely and I enjoyed them every day. But it was only as they truly opened and I came close to marvel at the art inside their cups that I saw all the colors, all the intricate markings of their center. I admired them from a distance, but they took my breath away when I looked more carefully.
I learn to “look again” and practice wonder.
“The patterns of our lives reveal us. Our habits measure us.”