Life is short, and life is beautiful, and everything is lovely.
Love it, embrace it, smell the lilacs, play with the dog,
and love endlessly and fiercely with everything you've got.
Live without regret.
There are four old lilac bushes on the farm, planted along an old fence line, long gone, that separated a small paddock from the young orchard. The bushes are spectacular this year, full of fragrance and blooms, overgrowing their allotted space.
But I never mind this kind of exuberance. And when pruning is mentioned, I say, "Wait until after they bloom." It's always my response when pruning is suggested.
For lilacs are heady and rich with scent, not lightly scented, not barely detected on the warm evening breeze. Lilacs are demanding, and I never ignore their desire: that I come close, gather up an armful of blooms with both hands, bury my face in their spicy fragrance, and inhale as deeply as I can. Only then am I released to walk away.
They were out in masses in Eastern Washington.
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