I must be sharing some head space with Cheri at Word Press. I’ve been thinking about ephemerals as I photographed the woodland wildflowers a few weeks ago. An entire hillside was covered in trout lily, and I was excited at the prospect of seeing them all bloom at once. I went back two weeks later to discover that I’d missed it.
Fleeting. Short life cycles. Tomorrow is the 35th anniversary of the first time I kissed my husband. He died at the age of 47. “It’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years that counts.” That quote is attributed to Abraham Lincoln, and my sister-in-law read it at Jim’s memorial. Living, sentient beings change over time, rapidly or slowly doesn’t matter. We are all impermanent. Is that an aberration? Or is that just the way it is? Rage or accept as you will, the wheel turns, the cycle moves.