After a cookbook AND a home-booked meal, a birthday girl doesn’t expect much more from her philosopher.
But the man never disappoints.
I’d been begging for weeks for us to go bluebell hunting. They’d just popped in Texas before we left, but I was fairly sure Texan bluebells are just a shadow of the real deal here.
Now I’m positive.
We weren’t sure what to call a group of bluebells. A cluster?
We settled on a mob. As in, “wow! check out that mob of bluebells over there!”
And a huge swathe of them is called “a mania of bluebells”.
Happiness is a mania of bluebells in spring.
We need to go to Shotover Park more often.
I bet it’s like magic in the fog.
As is, it’s full of hidden surprises.
We may have, er, made a fool of ourselves expressing our love for natural beauty. I think the bluebells liked to be sung to, actually. Not sure how the tree felt.
Thank you, Father, for beauty that tugs at the deepest parts of us.