After all, I don’t see why I am always asking for private, individual, selfish miracles when every year there are miracles like <white> dogwood. (I insert pink here)
~Anne Morrow Lindbergh
It started this weekend. The dogwood tree right in front of our porch, having looked pretty much dead to the world since October, started to bud out in subtle pink petaled blossoms. Last week there had been nothing remarkable whatsoever about the tree.
Suddenly it is a feast for the eyes, almost blinding in its brilliance.
Each year the old dogwood startles me. From dead to brilliant in a mere two weeks. And not only our tree, but every other pink dogwood within a twenty mile radius has answered the same April siren call: bloom! bloom your heart out! dazzle every retina in sight!
And it is done simultaneously on every tree, all the same day, without a sound, without an obvious signal, as if an invisible conductor had swooped a baton up and in the downbeat everything turned pink. Or perhaps the baton is really a wand, shooting out pink stars to paint these otherwise plain and humble trees, so inconspicuous the rest of the year.
Ordinarily I don’t dress up in finery like these trees do. I prefer inconspicuous myself. But I love the celebratory joy of those trees in full blossom and enjoy looking for them in yards and parks and along sidewalks.
Maybe there is something pink in my closet I can wear. Maybe conspicuous every once in awhile is exactly what is needed.