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The tiger lilies are back, lining fences, adorning ditches, and tangling in humid breezes. In our neighborhood, Talk of the Town, flourishes; from their deep centers emerge six stamens, a pistil, and soft yellow lines on each of the six petals. Such orangeness ushers in the deeper colors of summer: gold, scarlet, peach, raspberry, and indigo.

So ordinary, the tiger lily thrives in both cultivated and wild regions around the world, its rootedness within the mystery of death and rebirth. We have a similar rootedness. How many springs have we experienced, only to move into still another summer, followed by autumn, and winter? Only to be restored, again, our spirits filled with new oranges glistening with dew?

On a lighter note … It was a June morning, long ago, and hot. As very young nun, I was asked to arrange flowers in the refectory to honor the visit of our new Vicar. After pinning up my skirts, I meandered through the dense woods surrounding our limestone stone convent. Near the creek bed bloomed a profusion of long-stemmed orange flowers. Breathless with my discovery, I cut armfuls, hurried inside, painstakingly placed them in vases, and set them on refectory tables. Excitement tore through me. Certainly I would win the approval of my superior and the other nuns. That evening, following spiritual reading, everyone processed to the refectory for supper. Titterserupted. It was about those orange flowers. They had morphed into dark knobs.





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