I am pleased—nay, relieved—to announce that paradise has arrived chez nous.
Paradise, according to my standards, that is.
Your idea of paradise might be very different from mine. Yours might not include early morning walks, with long shadows and stunning green.
Maybe you don’t care for birds singing and roosters crowing, and woodpeckers pecking. Maybe the sight of old cats finding their inner kitten and frolicking in the sun fails to impress.
Maybe you’re bored with flowers blooming and grass greening, and the sound of lawns being mowed. Maybe the uncurling, unfurling, of tender hosta leaves doesn’t move you.
A lake free of ice and full of sparkles, with boats venturing out in spite of the water temperature being a mere 40 degrees F (that’s about 4 C)—maybe that doesn’t spell paradise to you.
The signs of spring and the hints of summer abound. The promises of things to come are all around.
My paradise isn’t a static place—paradise doesn’t stand still. It whispers and suggests and promises that even more and even better is . . . soon.
Peonies, Solomon seal, lilies of the valley . . . they will come.
Old chairs on new grass, and the good old, same old sun. Kayaks in the water, bikes on the road, hot dogs on the grill. Music and song at the campfire.
And two of our favorite people will arrive from their Florida home and take up residence just down the road.
My paradise is . . . well, paradise! I hope you have your own, whatever it looks like.