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During summer walks I’m often stopped by fragrances, by eruptions of fresh colors, and by swirls of energy that quicken my psyche.

In the next block blooms a mimosa tree, its pink brush-shapes fancifully sweeping the cobalt sky; its sweetness perfuming the air; its feathery lime-green branches rippling upon breezes. I pause. I listen to the stillness. Delight infuses my senses and enlarges my world.

Days pass.

An afternoon squall collapses the blossoms, until dried out by the sun, their pink-splendor restored.

More days pass. Aproned around the tree are the beginnings of spent blossoms decomposing upon the grass. Yet the heady fragrance still invites communion.

Such largesse bespeaks a power that provides these displays from late May through July, every year.

Such is the love of Creator-God for us.




It is dusk, the stoplight at Arsenal and Watson Streets in St. Louis, the chill blistering nubby tree limbs.

Suddenly a pink blur intrudes into my teeming world. I gawk. Yes, variegated pinks: long quilt coat buttoned to the neck, mittens, a child’s backpack. The solitary figure jiggles, dances in place, waves her arms. Spritzers of gray hair poke through her stocking cap tied beneath her pasty chin; her face resembles a dried apple.

I am uneasy. I look more closely. Who is this woman? Where has she been her long years? With whom? Does she need help? My help?

She turns, a vacant look in her eyes, and hugs her spindly chest. The Metro bus pulls to a stop. She climbs aboard and flashes her pass and weaves toward an empty seat. Suddenly my concerns diminish. The bus rumbles toward midtown, perhaps home for this fellow traveler.

Seasoned by hardship, she does not need my help. Perhaps I could benefit from hers.

(Pink symbolizes sensuality, emotions, and transformation. per, J. E. Cirlot, A Dictionary of Symbols.)



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