Because Beauty Doesn't Last Forever

It is Barrington who helped me notice the iris.  That last morning in October I sat with him in the chair -- holding him, cherishing him -- I determined to notice the soft feel of his coat, the tender look of his eyes, the resilient flex of his ears...so I could remember.  It was a life and death exercise in presence; paying close attention.

I thought of him again a few mornings ago when Tir led me out the front door onto the porch.  In the flower bed off to the right was the yellow iris in full presentation.  The bud had been teasing us for days with peeks of pigment escaping from the edges of its fist.  This morning, however, while we slept it had relaxed and offered its full self to the birds or the sky or whomever might glance in its direction.  And remembering Barrington's lesson that life and beauty are both fragile and fleeting, I made a point of accepting the gift the iris had worked these past several weeks to deliver -- the yellow, at once subtle and rich; the crepe petals folded gracefully into a still life ballet; the stem, sentry straight and tall.

In a different time and frame of mind I would have noticed the bloom, perhaps even mentioned its loveliness, but moved routinely on; forgetting how short is the life of beauty.  Already the crab apple blossoms, so long expected, are all but gone, and the tulips are leaning and faded.  But the peony bushes are still covered in balls, and the cucumber flowers portend summer fruit.

And just this morning, the lavender iris -- last evening yet but a promise and a tease -- had opened.  I noticed, and I will treasure the joy of its splendor for however many hours or days it shares it.  Because Barrington taught me the importance of paying close attention.