We are here earlier this year than we normally are

The dock is not yet out

The tiger lilies have not yet bloomed

The air is cooler against my skin

Yet it still feels perfect

The sun still warms my back

Wind still drying my tears

The waves still gently touch the shore

Leaves still moving in the wind

Their sound like nature’s whisper

This year the creeping daisies and the crown vetch

Have taken over the beach

And they are wild and beautiful

I have already been painting them

Yesterday I painted a single crown vetch

But it did not really capture the wildness of the flower

So I painted a section of them with what little skill I have

My mother-in-law likes to rip them out

A purple weed

Poisonous I’m told

But I think she decided to leave them this year

At least for now

Because she knows I enjoy them

I wonder who is the one to decide

This one is a flower

And this one is a weed

The flowers we value

While the weeds go into the pile to be burned

Who decided this lovely purple flower

With its curving rounded petals

Is really a weed?

I look it up

And am surprised to find

A weed is not a specific type of growth

But rather a word that gets applied

To any growth that is unwanted

Even a rose might be called a weed

If it shows up in your carrot patch

Apparently whether or not something is a weed

Is in the eye of the beholder

My tears are falling

And I don’t know why

Not unusual at the cottage

Where I’m allowed to let my guard down

Able to let the tears fall

The wind softly drying them almost as if

God himself is wiping them away

Emotion is a curious thing

I’ve treated it like an enemy for much of my life

Something to be hidden and controlled

My counselor tells me emotion is a gift

But I’m not sure I believe her

It has gotten me into trouble more than once

When it escapes to the surface despite

The ropes and tethers I use to tie it down

Emotion doesn’t feel like a bad thing here

As I let the tears finally fall

To have a heart that is tender

When the world is doing all it can

To make it callous

Maybe I’m more like Mary in some ways than Martha

More likely to weep at the sight of my Savior

Longing for truth and beauty

To put down the serving tray

And just take it all in

To Martha, Mary was someone who needed to be scolded

But Jesus protected her

Jesus even said what she chose was better

Despite all the centuries of women being told their place

Jesus gave her a place at his table

Who decided emotion was a weed?

Something to be pulled and discarded

Perhaps it is really a flower

A thing of beauty and color

Growing in a gray and ugly landscape

I have not only wept at my own losses

I have wept at the losses of others

Sitting with them wordlessly

Crying with them

For there is grief that words will never comfort

Only shared grief makes it lighter

Emotion can be a quiet and gentle thing

Delicate and good

It can also be overpowering

Especially when kept at bay for so long

As the crown vetch have exploded over the beach

Taking it over

For you can’t really trust emotion

Too much of it can keep other things from growing in your life

Emotion is an indicator

The Holy Spirit’s way of getting my attention

It isn’t the final word

But I’m tired of treating it as a weed

Just because others have told me it is one

Others like Martha who want me to know my place

When Jesus has already given me a seat at his table

For who is to say what is a weed

And what is really a flower?