I bought a pink hydrangea macrophylla (a.k.a. mophead hydrangea), the second flowering plant to enter my domain, last Saturday. In order to determine the ideal planting conditions I did a lay botanist's research online. According to a blogging horticulturalist, the presence in the soil of a sufficient amount of aluminum--or, the way that everyone else in the world spells it, "aluminium"--leads to blue petals and the lack thereof leads to pink petals. I thought the pink would add more brightness so I chose pink; but now I am wondering how much aluminium will be present in my hydrangea's future settlement.

I have been thinking a lot about my patterns of selective looking. When I am happy it is easy for me to believe that I am forgiving and forgiven by God. Generally, my sins do not appear as prominent. What is easy to see is my sinfulness in the distant past; and what is hard to see is my sinfulness in the present. It is like being far-sighted, I suppose. When I am anxious and fearful due to not having certain of my ducks in a row, I become near-sighted with respect to the reality of sinfulness in me and in others. As a result, I am easily saddened and angered by things I do not want to hear or reflect on.

In college I used to skim articles from the Best American Science Writing series. I recently came across this year's book and the title "Perhaps Death is Proud; More Reason to Savor Life" caught my eye for its allusion to the John Donne poem, which I wish I could recite like Emma Thompson in the movie Wit. I sympathized with but disliked the end of the article where the English-professor-turned-nurse waxed popular philosophical.

I am 43. I came to nursing circuitously, following a brief career as an English professor. Often at work in the hospital I hear John Donne in my head:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so.

But after my Condition A I find his words empty. My patient died looking like one of the flesh-eating zombies from “28 Weeks Later,” and indeed in real life, even in the world of the hospital, a death like this is unsettling.

What can one do? Go home, love your children, try not to bicker, eat well, walk in the rain, feel the sun on your face and laugh loud and often, as much as possible, and especially at yourself. Because the only antidote to death is not poetry, or drama, or miracle drugs, or a roomful of technical expertise and good intentions. The antidote to death is life.

I found the last point to be a non sequitur, at worst, and shallow, at best. It seems to me that she is advising, "Poetry, drama, miracle drugs, and technical expertise are not going to solve the problem of death. So forget about dying and have some laughs before death becomes an inevitable matter of time and money." For an English professor I am surprised that she so easily dismisses Donne's poem and I was disappointed that she ends the article with such a shallow recommendation that can be found in any number of pop songs from Colbie Caillat or Ingrid Michaelson.

In front of my current abode there is a plant that I have not yet been able to identify but reminds me of a hibiscus. The important detail is that its flowers' petals close at night and open in the morning. The best way to prepare for death may be to get a good night's rest; the better we sleep, the happier the resurrection. "The antidote to death is life," the writer says. She suggests that this antidote is akin to walking in the rain, feeling the sun on your face, and eating well. There are times when eating well makes me more vivacious, but I do not even feel like eating when I am faced with the sting of death.

I am not sure why I wanted to write about this, but maybe it is coming from my yet-to-be-executed plan to write a very positive movie review of Wit. I highly recommend it, as does a prominent medical school in whose suburb I live!

I bought my first flowering plant today. It is a Calceolaria herbeohybrida, also called Lady's purse [edit: not "Ladie's"], Slipper flower, Pocketbook flower, Slipperwort, and Pouch flower. It looks like this:





One of my flowers looked irretractably dented in two regions. However, to my surprise, I discovered that by directing a focused gentle stream of air into the opening of the slipper, the pocket can return to its properly full shape.

A couple of weekends ago I attended a wedding in New Haven. The reception was held at a lovely venue overlooking Long Island Sound. After most of his obligations as MC were completed, the MC rounded up the three daughters of the officiating pastor who was at our table, each of whom were pleasant and entertaining table companions, for the activity that was the theme of the reception: kites! It was so blustery that the door had to be locked in order to stay closed. I am always impressed by how children bear cold weather so well. One strong gust moved myself and the girls closer towards the door for a haven from the wind. I wrapped the youngest in my long black coat so that we could continue observing the MC maneuvering his kite.

Towards the end of the reception the family of three daughters at our table was preparing to leave. I was exchanging some good-byes and began walking back to our table when the youngest daughter ran to me. I turned around, surprised. I leaned down expecting a question and got a hug instead!



Braving the gales together.