Dandelions

The little Hux and I reread the case history for our adopted kids over the weekend. I won’t go into any details, other than to say that overall the history is less sordid than your average Lifetime movie, or any typical CNN-hyped neglectful parent morality tale. But it is a pretty disturbing document nonetheless.

It aligns well with the ideas floated often in this blog, of random objects colliding, thrown off track or into the sun by some large passing object, some previously unknown intruding force. It's cold out there. And dark. But the flip side of that idea speaks of objects falling improbably into stable orbits, forming binaries and triplets, rings and halos and clouds, arcs of bright ice stretching across the sky. It speaks of infinite possibility.

Yesterday I told the girls I’d pay them a penny for each dandelion they picked off our lawn, then watched them run across the grass, plucking at dandelions as if their spinning lives, our spinning world depended upon it. They presented their bowls of dandelions to me carefully, as if they were full of fissionable materials, Faberge eggs, blown glass. I counted out the dandelions, one by one, while they watched rapt (it says much about the state of our lawn that I shelled out over three dollars).

Then I counted my blessings.

Infinite possibility.