Today's post is filled with Autumn Images, all taken at Michigan State University's horticultural and children's gardens.
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Thanks for all of you who have sent good wishes and still visited the Marmelade Gypsy while I've been at home and sick -- not able to easily post and even less easily able to visit your blogs.
I have lots of catching up to do with my regular pals, along with the writers, the Halloween Party folk and the Pink Saturdays!
I'm back at work -- sort of. I got here about 1, after a doc appointment and a walk through MSU's gardens.
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"Why the gardens when you're sick and it's raining?," you might ask -- and rightly so.
I guess, because I needed to.
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All bundled up in the warm coat of many colors I bought in Canada, I walked through the drizzle with my camera, catching the last of autumn before forecasted snow comes. I hope it will pass me by and that my walk was premature. Still, no chances. I'm not taking chances.
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Don't put off till tomorrow -- we all say that, don't we. And, often make those calculated risks of what
can be put off until tomorrow, just assuming tomorrow is a normal day.
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I thought of that when I walked into my office and saw papers I meant to take to the in-house mail before I was sick last Tuesday, sitting in the same stacks as before. (I think they put a quarantine sign around my office. Even the janitors didn't come in.)
But I've thought of it before, too. I've been thinking about it for the past almost-24 hours.
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Last night Rick came over with my dinner (he has been so good to bring me dinner every night). And after I finished eating, he said, "Turn off the tv." Made sense to me -- he's not that fond of TV, and it's all the same these days.
Then he said he had something to tell me -- and told me that his cousin, the vibrant, feisty, energetic and outrageously creative thirtysomething Andrea, had died unexpectedly that weekend.
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We are filled with sorrow for Andi and her family. For all of us, really, for it's a huge loss. More than I want to write about right now, for my heart is aching for them all, and for me, too. And writing about this -- no, believing this -- is so very hard.
One day, you're alive. Ready to face the world. And, even if you're not really "ready," you are darned grateful that you can.
And so, as I walked under the raining sky, it felt as though the world was crying with me. I had to see this garden, at one time so very much alive. Now, drying up, withering, ready to rest.
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And I couldn't help but think of Andi, so colorful and vibrant, like the flowers I saw in the gardens several times this summer. Alive and beautiful. That color, the joy now still.
The colors of brown and rust and tan were occasionally punctuated by a colorful tree or the purple astors. But those were fewer and farther between. It was a place of quite, beautiful in its own way, but in a lost, lonely beauty. One of sorrow.
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I was alone, and yet I didn't feel alone, but accompanied by all the others who have left too soon.
I know the garden will be beautiful again. But Andi -- her beauty must now be in our hearts.
Crossing the bridge.
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Sometimes, it just doesn't feel like it's time to cross the bridge.