This week at the park, the hostas and the oak-leaf hydrangeas were in bloom. I didn't find these flowers quite as spectacular as many that have already come and gone, but I warned myself against living in the past (or the future).
Instead, I allowed myself to be hypnotized by the new growth on the heather.
When I went to the dentist on Tuesday, the hygienist looked at my chart and frowned. "It's been a while," she said, crushing my hopes that a pandemic might have provided a good excuse for missing three cleanings. But it appeared that the hygienist, like so many others in the United States, had already forgotten about the pandemic.
I was also hoping that she might appreciate that I was approaching the question of time from a more subjective vantage point. For example, it didn't feel like such a long time since I had last been to the dentist's office -- the classic-rock radio station was on, just like always, playing Steve Miller and Aerosmith -- but it seemed like she was taking an excruciatingly long time to arrange all of her metal instruments on the metal tray. Or how, lately, every time I look at the calendar, it feels like two weeks have passed. "You can lean back now," she finally said, opening a door to the present through which I had no choice but to step.
In the park, I took a picture of the same oak-leaf hydrangea (with my favorite elm trees in the background) that I take every year.
I didn't remember this late-blooming red azalea, however.
In some ways, I thought, I was ready to get back to business as usual, too.
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