one of the most wonderful things about my writing room is that one window overlooks the top of a lilac bush. every spring, when the lilac bursts into purple flower, my writing room is periodically infused with that most ambrosial of scents.
the lilac's blooming corresponds to the birthday of one of my old writing teachers... juilene osborne mcknight. (you can google her - she's real) so every year - since coming to live here - i think of her, round and about her birthday, and every year - since coming to live here - for perhaps two glorious weeks, i bask in the perfume of paradise. i noticed yesterday the first faint fragrance, wafting into the writing room with every passing breeze.
the other thing that happens this time of year, predictable as the rise of the pleiades, is that the farmer next door brings in dump truck loads full of manure with which to fertilize the mum fields. mum's the word, all right - talk about an SPV (silent but violent, a term my little sister taught me many years ago, usually applied to farts.)
my first clue yesterday was when i thought a dog had had an accident and went sniffing through the house for the source of the odor. that's when it hit me - figuratively, fortunately: if the lilac is just bursting into bloom... it's time for bill to bring in the shit.
i can't tell you how many times i've caught a whiff of lilac, then drawn a deeper breath and smelled not heaven, but manure. i could close the window, get an air freshner. i could smudge, burn incense, light scented candles.
but i leave the window open anyway, because that intense scent of lilac, so fleeting and so sweet, is more than worth a few lungfuls full of poop.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.