When we’re all out puttering around in the sprawl of unfenced backyards that links the experiment in collective living we call home, I try to pay attention to the things my neighbors teach their children; there are lessons I may have forgotten.
For the past few years my friend has been trying to get her boys, Nick and Jack, to say “I’m happy with what I have,” hoping that one day they’ll mean it.
It’s a tall order for small boys. I understand that better now that I am returned from a week peering into the lush gardens of Mississippi, where I marveled as crinkly brown resurrection fern unfurled after the rain, like green fur on the branches of live oaks, and nearly swooned at the sight of crinolines of pink and white azaleas trimming plantation lawns. When I spotted blooms of dogwood floating like white butterflies on slim branches, I felt a catch of longing in my throat.
Back home, my flowering trees and shrubs seem wisely reluctant to burst forth. But this morning I detected a rosy flush on my crab apple tree, a hint that soon, I, too, will be happy with what I have. Dana Coffield
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