Vibrant Flower Quotes

Let us break the deadlock and stop doom-scrolling into the narrative of a fluctuating landscape of dispiriting thoughts...but, instead, invite the flowers of compassion to blossom in our hearts and our minds and overwhelm us with a spray of vibrant petals of well-being. ("Absence of Desire" )

The festival of the summer solstice speaks of love and light, of freedom and generosity of spirit. It is a beautiful time of year where vibrant flowers whisper to us with scented breath, forests and woodlands hang heavy in the summer’s heat and our souls become enchanted with midsummer magic.

The twisted limbs of the woods outside cast eerie shadows through the translucent ceiling above, while the flowers scattered all around, bright, and vibrant, filled the space with light. It felt as if I’d stepped into a world of both life and death; a dance of the macabre, of that which is real, and that which lies beyond.

Beliefs are the unquestioned acceptance of an idea in the absence of verification and reason.   Beliefs are not facts; beliefs are the escape from facts. Beliefs are the food of a make-believe world.   Permanent clarity is available to you, but not if you want to cling to your beliefs.   If you insist on believing, believe this:   I am Conscious Life Energy. Because I am, all is. I am vibrant intelligence, by which flowers grow and wounds heal. In my absence, existence as it is known, ceases. The world is my manifest expression and this body is its instrument of perception and action. In this regard, I am the Knowing of every sensation, feeling and thought. I am the Author of every action.

The most vibrant of flowers often come from the filthiest of soils.

The gardens were brilliant with summer magic, with plump cushions of forget-me-nots, lemon balm, and vibrant yellow daylilies, surrounding plots of roses shot through with garnet clematis. Long rows of silvery lamb's-ear stretched between large stone urns filled with rainbow Oriental poppies.

There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year's shining motor cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him too that many men had already loved Daisy--it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.

She attended the French performance, but the play's content now had a connection to her life. She read a book and the book invariably had lines with sparks from her mind, the fire of her emotions flickered here and there, and words spoken the night before were written down, as if the author had overheard how her heart beat. The forest held the same trees, but their sound had taken on special meaning; she had established a vibrant consonance with them. The birds did not simply twitter and chirp but were saying something to each other. Everything around her spoke and responded to her mood; a flower would blossom and she seemed to hear its breathing. pp. 256-257

If you put sexual attraction on a scale of one to ten, where ten equals "you can't keep your hands off each other,"five equals "you can take it or leave it," and one equals "repulsed," to support a vibrant relationship, it should be at least a seven, preferably an eight, nine, or ten. With work, you might raise the attraction one notch, but because there is so much biochemistry involved in sexual attraction, it's hard to do much more than that. So if a sexual attraction doesn't evolve, remember, it's not anyone's fault and it's just the what is of your pairing, and you might make better friends than lovers. Sexual attraction doesn't have to be instantaneous on first meeting, but it must eventually flower because it provides a basic glue for successful conjugal union. If we're not sexually alive to our beloved, it often leads to a subdued relationship, loneliness, affairs, or lots of fantasies.

Nature is medicinal; the sun, large bodies of water, and deep breaths of fresh air. Healing is found in the mountains, amidst a forest, by fire, and water. I still recall how healing it was to be home, my parents' island, waking up to tropical sounds of morning; monkeys, tropical birds, and tropical animals discussing their days, feet in sand, and the glorious sound of tropical rain. Visuals of lush greens and vibrant flowers, nature calls us into ourselves, nature calls us home

I get it. Having had Satoru take me in as his cat, I think I felt as lucky as he did. Strays, by definition, have been abandoned or left behind, but Satoru rescued me when I broke my leg. He made me the happiest cat on earth. I'll always remember those five years we had together. And I'll forever go by the name Nana, the name that - let's face it - is pretty unusual for a male cat. The town where Satoru grew up, too, I would remember that. And the green seedlings swaying in the fields. The sea, with its frighteningly loud roar. Mount Fuji, looming over us. How cosy it felt on top of that boxy TV. That wonderful lady cat, Momo. That nervy but earnest hound, Toramaru. That huge white ferry, which swallowed up cars into its stomach. The dogs in the pet holding area, wagging their tails at Satoru. That foul-mouthed chinchilla telling me Guddo rakku! The land in Hokkaido stretching out forever. Those vibrant purple and yellow flowers by the side of the road. The field of pampas grass like an ocean. The horses chomping on grass. The bright-red berries on the mountain-ash trees. The shades of red on the mountain ash that Satoru taught me. The stands of slender white birch. The graveyard, with its wide-open vista. The bouquet of flowers in rainbow colours. The white heart-shaped bottom of the deer. That huge, huge, huge double rainbow growing out of the ground. I would remember these for the rest of my life. And Kosuke, and Yoshimine, and Sugi and Chikako. And above all, the one who brought up Satoru and made it possible for us to meet - Noriko. Could anyone be happier than this?

He recites the names of the trees, vines, shrubs, flowers that he’s planted here over the years. I count about forty different species. Finally, in the dim light from the patio, he studies a new fern that has just come up. “It’s just vibrant and happy and healthy. The way a patient should be.

A small crowd had gathered to gaze at the astonishing display of color: vivid blues; regal purples; soft, candy-floss pinks; strawberry reds; vibrant lime greens; sun-bright, buttercup yellows; rich oranges; and creamy, vanilla whites. Tilly’s eyes were unable to take it all in, her mouth unable to suppress a smile of sheer delight. It was as if someone had poured a box of paints onto this one street, leaving nothing with which to brighten up the drab gray of the rest of the city she had just passed.

It won’t be easy. Right now you’re in the middle of the kind of heartbreak that is bone deep. It will come in waves and you’ll want to drown in it. You’ll promise yourself you won’t cry, and then you’ll break that promise a million times. But someday it will change. Your heart will begin to see vibrant colors again. Because grief is not a place to stay, it’s a doorway to pass through.

But I think I’ve finally come to realize that it’s my destiny to be one of the madwomen. One of the women who speaks the truth no matter how terrifying it might be. One of the women who stands apart from the crowd, focusing not on their angry faces and disapproval but looking above them at the sky, which is in a vibrant shade of hyacinth blue that matches the flowers growing in the garden.

Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.

It was impossible to doubt her. Her gray eyes roved here and there, drowsing, idle or alert, on each group, passing to the next with unconcealed enjoyment, and to Anthony were made plain the different values of her profile, the wonderfully alive expressions of her mouth, and the authentic distinction of face and form and manner that made her like a single flower amidst a collection of cheap bric-à-brac. At her happiness, a gorgeous sentiment welled into his eyes, choked him up, set his nerves a-tingle, and filled his throat with husky and vibrant emotion.

There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at.

Past their normal blooming season, the trees had shed many of their blossoms, but the ones that remained were vibrant and showy, like the finale of a fireworks show. Up close, the trees did not disappoint. I stared up in awe at a yellow blossom, touching its petals lightly and breathing in the balmy, lemony scent.

I lingered at the edge of an open field of lanky meadow buttercups. The vibrant green-and-yellow field was deserted. Behind me arose a gnarled crab apple tree in full, glorious bloom, the petals of its flowers littering the shaded bench on which I'd been about to sit. A breeze set the branches rustling, a waterfall of white petals flittering down like snow.

Save for the accident of her low birth, Peg might have been a person of fashion; a vibrant beauty, painted by an academician in oils. Intending to make a quick end to it, I started mixing the lily green I had made especially from crushed flowers, hoping exactly to tint her eyes, rattling my tiny brush in the jar. Then I subjected her to my closest gaze. "Your eyes," I said, musingly. "They are a very unusual green; in different lights they reflect brown and blue. Do they perhaps reflect whatever light falls on them?" Peg replied that she couldn't say. "Do, please, sit very still." I looked very hard, then used my green with a wash of yellow ochre to tint the iris, and a ring of burnt umber. A pinprick of white titanium gave them startling life. I was happy with them; surely even Peg would admire her lively cat-like eyes.

When she discovered a more complex truth—that she had also been culpable in her marriage, that she wasn’t always right—something remarkable happened. Her vision seemed to change. She could perceive colors more intensely. Freed from her black-and-white thinking and rigid interpretation of the past, the world appeared more vivid and vibrant. She drove her children crazy, pointing at flowers—yellow, red, purple, blue—saying, “Look at that! Look! Look!

When we commit to the easy way --- planting one kind of anything --- we gamble. It is simpler, isn't it, to know and promote only a few flowers or trees or grasses for our landscape? We know what they will look like, their requirements and habits. It's more comfortable. A no-brainer. But when we do, we lose the benefits of a vibrant, healthy landscape teeming with different trees, plants and their associated animals, birds, and insects. We lose diversity.

It was another mild day, signaling the transition from winter to spring. The trees unfolded their leaves as they awoke from their long winter nap. In the cloudless blue sky, birds chirped as they floated from tree to tree on the light breeze and alighted to outstretched limbs. The first flowers of spring dotted the landscape with a prelude of the bright, vibrant colors about to spill over the muted and dull tones dominating the palate of the lifeless winter season just passed.

Ranging in different shades of pink from pale to vibrant, the peonies seemed to burst open practically overnight, swarms of bees zipping from flower to flower. In the orchard, fluffy white flowers adorned the cherry trees. The lake glimmered in the distance, the strands of the weeping willows blowing in the warm spring breeze. I'd read somewhere that weeping willows represented strength and were able to withstand the greatest of challenges. I wanted to be the tree, perseverant and ready for anything, even a storm.

My mom's Busy Day Cake," Nellie said, lifting the carrier slightly. "With lemon frosting and some violets from the garden I sugared." Her mother had often made the cake for social gatherings, telling Nellie everyone appreciated a simple cake. "It's only when you try to get too fancy do you find trouble," Elsie was fond of saying, letting Nellie lick the buttercream icing from the beaters as she did. Some might consider sugaring flowers "too fancy," but not Elsie Swann- every cake she made carried some sort of beautiful flower or herb from her garden, whether it was candied rose petals or pansies, or fresh mint or lavender sugar. Elsie, a firm believer in the language of flowers, spent much time carefully matching her gifted blooms and plants to their recipients. Gardenia revealed a secret love; white hyacinth, a good choice for those who needed prayers; peony celebrated a happy marriage and home; chamomile provided patience; and a vibrant bunch of fresh basil brought with it good wishes. Violets showcased admiration- something Nellie did not have for the exhausting Kitty Goldman but certainly did for the simple deliciousness of her mother's Busy Day Cake.

The subtle scent of flowers was lost beneath the aroma of cooking meat and freshly cut fruit, heavy spices and mulled wine. A man in dark robes offered candied plums beside a woman selling scrying stones. A vendor poured steaming tea into short glass goblets across from another vibrant stall displaying masks and a third offering tiny vials of water drawn from the Isle, the contents still glowing faintly with its light. Every night of the year, the market lived and breathed and thrived. The stalls were always changing, but the energy remained, as much a part of the city as the river it fed on.

Tropical palms bring strong solar energy to your home that break up stale energy, and keep your home safe from nasty spiritual entities. The African violet is associated with love and magic, and its vibrant purple flowers pull lunar energy into your home. Aloe, a succulent that grows in long spears, is moon planet associated with the water element because the gel inside the leaves in cooling and healing. The clusters of star shaped flowers that grow on the long tendrils of the hoya, also called a wax plant, produce truly intoxicating nectar whose aroma fills the whole house and bestows blessings on anyone who smells it.

My eyes blinked like a camera shutter clicking through the frames of my life, except the images were mismatched and haphazard: a ragged-looking doll with a rose-colored dress; crocheted white baby mittens, slightly unraveled; a row of tulips, vibrant red; Rex's smile; a rusty weather vane whirling in the wind. My eyelids fluttered, fighting to remain open, but when they closed, the welcoming image that waited beckoned me to stay, promising to give me the comfort, the peace I longed for. The camellias. I could see them, seemingly endless rows of big, bushy green trees with waxy leaves and showy flowers the size of saucers. Pinks, reds- bursting into bloom, as if they'd been painted by the Queen of Hearts.

We say that we mourn the dead, and there is some truth in that. We lament the flower frozen in full bloom, cut off at the moment of promise, or another long wilted, whose slow fading and drawn-out, painful diminishment cast a shadow over a vibrant and glorious past. And yet. Once the eyes are closed and the heart is stilled, we come to understand that the worst of the pain has passed. For them. The dead have no more use for pain, for memory or regret. Regret is for the living. And so when we stand at the bedside, the graveside, the casket, our mourning is less for the beloved departed than it is for ourselves. We mourn the missed opportunity, the word unspoken or spoken in haste, the hole in our lives and the unsettling of our souls, our own disappointments and the loss of innocence. We gaze upon the stillness that is unending and feel our self-importance crack and the myth of our immortality smash. We stare upon the face of death to see ourselves more clearly, to satisfy our curiosity, to make peace with the inescapable. We hold our breath, try to imagine what it would be like never to take another and what the departed know now that we don’t. We try to conjure what the life we have left would look like if such knowledge were ours. We try to imagine ourselves kind and expansive and giving, balanced and patient, more honest, more thankful, more peaceful, content with what we have, mindless of what we have not. We imagine ourselves happy. For a moment, we believe we can be. And then, because we can’t help ourselves, we breathe and, breathing, are reminded of the many other things we cannot help. The faith of a moment fades and hope is replaced by the intimate knowledge of our imperfections. Lonely, weeping, we stand with our feet anchored to the ground, watching our better angels fly above us and beyond us to time out of mind, and we mourn.

Enormous hydrangeas with vibrant pink sponge-like blooms, rhododendrons and impatiens, tall spears of flowering oyster plants jostled together with Jurassic-looking philodendron leaves and tree ferns, a mixed bag all tied by a wild creeper with bell-shaped blue flowers. The damp smell of the garden reminded Jess of places she'd visited in Cornwall, like St. Just in Roseland, where fertile ground spoke of layers of different generations, civilizations past. At last, beyond the tangled greenery, Jess glimpsed the jutting white chimneys of a large roof. She realized she was holding her breath. She turned a final corner, just like Daniel Miller had done on his way to meet Nora, and there it was. Grand and magnificent, yet even from a distance she could see that the house was in a state of disrepair. It was perched upon a stone plinth that rose about a meter off the ground. A clinging ficus with tiny leaves had grown to cover most of the stones and moss stained the rest, so that the house appeared to sit upon an ocean of greenery. Jess was reminded of the houses in fairy tales, hidden and then forgotten, ignored by the human world only to be reclaimed by nature. Protruding from one corner of the plinth was a lion's head, its mouth open to reveal a void from which a stream of spring water must once have flowed. On the ground beneath sat a stone bowl, half-filled with stale rainwater. As Jess watched, a blue-breasted fairy wren flew down to perch upon the edge of the bowl; after observing Jess for a moment, the little bird made a graceful dive across the surface of the water, skimming himself clean before disappearing once more into the folds of the garden.

Can anything possibly be salvaged from it?” Wherever you are right now in the story, I am going to interrupt you with Isaiah 35. The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing. (verses 1–2) There is nothing wrong with a desert that a little rain can’t fix. Dry land is not inherently barren; the dirt itself is not evil. We are after all “formed…of dust from the ground” (Genesis 2:7). And no one’s life is apart from that basic ground from which God can bring his purposes to blossom. There are stretches of time when nothing is growing, but all the while nutrients are in the soil and seeds embedded just beneath the surface. A moment will come when the necessary moisture will bring faith to flower. Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who are of a fearful heart, “Be strong, fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.” (verses 3–4) You think that you have all you can take? That you can’t lift another burden? That you can’t manage another challenge? Well, “Be strong…! Behold, your God.” God comes. He comes in “vengeance.” He will take care, decisively and completely, of all that is wrong with the story. He comes with “recompense.” He will provide everything to make you whole and mature. The word recompense has a root meaning of “weaning from the mother’s breast.” A happy time, for it means you are making a transition from being a weak and dependent infant, but it’s a terrifying time too, for it means you are no longer treated indulgently as an innocent. “He will come and save you.” Everything God does is woven into the plot for your salvation—the judgments on your sin, the weaning from your innocence, the gifts of maturity. At the end of the story, for you who choose to be his people, you will have a put-together life, a life vibrant with health, a life whole and solid in love.

Meanwhile, Matthew took the empty place beside Daisy’s. “Miss Bowman,” he said softly. Daisy couldn’t manage a word. Her gaze lifted to his smiling eyes, and it seemed that emotions sprang from her in a fountain of warmth. She had to look away from him before she did something foolish. But she remained intensely aware of his body next to hers. Westcliff and Matthew entertained the group with an account of how their carriage had gotten stuck in mire. Luckily they had been helped by a passing farmer with an ox-drawn wagon, but in the process of freeing the vehicle, all participants had been covered with mud from head to toe. And apparently the episode had left the ox in quite an objectionable temper. By the time the story was finished, everyone at the table was chuckling. The conversation turned to the subject of the Shakespeare festival, and Thomas Bowman launched into an account of the visit to Stratford-on-Avon. Matthew asked a question or two, seeming fully engaged in the conversation. Suddenly Daisy was startled to feel his hand slide into her lap beneath the table. His fingers closed over hers in a gentle clasp. And all the while he took part in the conversation, talking and smiling easily. Daisy reached for her wine with her free hand and brought it to her lips. She took one sip, and then another, and nearly choked as Matthew played lightly with her fingers beneath the table. Sensations that had lain quiescent for a week kindled into vibrant life. Still not looking at her, Matthew gently slid something over her ring finger, past the knuckle, until it fit neatly at the base. Her hand was returned to her lap as a footman came to replenish the wine in their glasses. Daisy looked down at her hand, blinking at the sight of the glittering yellow sapphire surrounded by small round diamonds. It looked like a white-petaled flower. Her fingers closed tightly, and she averted her face to hide a betraying flush of pleasure. “Does it please you?” Matthew whispered. “Oh, yes.” That was the extent of their communication at dinner. It was just as well. There was too much to be said, all of it highly private. Daisy steeled herself for the usual long rituals of port and tea after dinner, but she was gratified when it seemed that everyone, even her father, was inclined to retire early. As it appeared the elderly vicar and his wife were ready to return home, the group dispersed without much fanfare. Walking with Daisy from the dining hall, Matthew murmured, “Will I have to scale the outside wall tonight, or are you going to leave your door unlocked?” “The door,” Daisy replied succinctly. “Thank God.

A Tale of Two Parking Requirements The impact of parking requirements becomes clearer when we compare the parking requirements of San Francisco and Los Angeles. San Francisco limits off-street parking, while LA requires it. Take, for example, the different parking requirements for concert halls. For a downtown concert hall, Los Angeles requires, as a minimum, fifty times more parking than San Francisco allows as its maximum. Thus the San Francisco Symphony built its home, Louise Davies Hall, without a parking garage, while Disney Hall, the new home of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, did not open until seven years after its parking garage was built. Disney Hall's six-level, 2,188-space underground garage cost $110 million to build (about $50,000 per space). Financially troubled Los Angeles County, which built the garage, went into debt to finance it, expecting that parking revenues would repay the borrowed money. But the garage was completed in 1996, and Disney Hall—which suffered from a budget less grand than its vision—became knotted in delays and didn't open until late 2003. During the seven years in between, parking revenue fell far short of debt payments (few people park in an underground structure if there is nothing above it) and the county, by that point nearly bankrupt, had to subsidize the garage even as it laid employees off. The money spent on parking shifted Disney Hall's design toward drivers and away from pedestrians. The presence of a six-story subterranean garage means most concert patrons arrive from underneath the hall, rather than from the sidewalk. The hall's designers clearly understood this, and so while the hall has a fairly impressive street entrance, its more magisterial gateway is an "escalator cascade" that flows up from the parking structure and ends in the foyer. This has profound implications for street life. A concertgoer can now drive to Disney Hall, park beneath it, ride up into it, see a show, and then reverse the whole process—and never set foot on a sidewalk in downtown LA. The full experience of an iconic Los Angeles building begins and ends in its parking garage, not in the city itself. Visitors to downtown San Francisco have a different experience. When a concert or theater performance lets out in San Francisco, people stream onto the sidewalks, strolling past the restaurants, bars, bookstores, and flower shops that are open and well-lit. For those who have driven, it is a long walk to the car, which is probably in a public facility unattached to any specific restaurant or shop. The presence of open shops and people on the street encourages other people to be out as well. People want to be on streets with other people on them, and they avoid streets that are empty, because empty streets are eerie and menacing at night. Although the absence of parking requirements does not guarantee a vibrant area, their presence certainly inhibits it. "The more downtown is broken up and interspersed with parking lots and garages," Jane Jacobs argued in 1961, "the duller and deader it becomes ... and there is nothing more repellent than a dead downtown.

Hibiscus Water Using whole, dried hibiscus flowers, not a hibiscus tea, is key to getting the strongest flavor for this water, which is meant to showcase the sour bite as well as the vibrant reds that these flowers produce. Makes about 12 ounces 2 cups water 56 grams (6 ounces) dried hibiscus flowers Small pinch of citric acid (available at specialty stores and from Amazon) In a small saucepan, bring the water to a boil. Remove from the heat, add the hibiscus, and let steep for at least 15 minutes or up to 30 minutes. Add the citric acid and stir well to combine. Strain the hibiscus water into an airtight container, let cool completely, then cover and refrigerate for up to 4 days.

Flowers clad in colorful t-shirts and vibrant shorts are swaying in the gentle breeze. Birds are singing. Trees start filling with leaves, and the branches laden with exploding buds look majestic. Balmy spring days are coming. I am happy, very happy.

Her former life of the brilliant textiles, vibrant patterns and vivid colors of the palace would be replaced with the less radiant but warmer tones and hues of her new home. Where the palace was eye-catching and flamboyant, the Temple of Danray was warm and homey, bursting with the muted colors of the earth. The training fields were weather-beaten and rich, and the buildings full of coppers, bronzes and golds. She noted that the Danrayen warriors and trainees all wore outfits in hues of fawn, mushroom, sage, and nut-brown that helped them blend in with their surroundings, and she was glad for the new wardrobe that helped her to look like she belonged, regardless of how scratchy and stiff she might find the fabric.

...a flash of colour amid a shadowy, gloomy background made me stop, a riot of colour and texture that compelled me to face the gilded frame. I'd never- never- seen anything like it. It's just a still life, a part of me said. And it was: a green glass vase with an assortment of flowers drooping over its narrow top, blossoms and leaves of every shape and size and colour- roses, tulips, morning glory, goldenrod, maiden's lace, peonies... The skill it must have taken to make them look so lifelike, to make them more than lifelike... Just a vase of flowers against a dark background- but more than that; the flowers seemed to be vibrant with their own light, as if in defiance of the shadows gathered around them. The mastery needed to make the glass vase hold that light, to bend the light with the water within, as if the vase did indeed have weight to it atop its stone pedestal... Remarkable.

The ceremony consisted of vibrant pink, purple, and coral details that complemented the rustic wood and lush green vines climbing up the chapel. Abigail's team constructed an arbor made entirely of drooping orchids and palm fronds that framed the wooden doors perfectly. The aisle was lined with thousands of coral-colored rose petals and more orchids spilling over the end of every row of seats. It was a tropical dream.

Elain would love this place. So many flowers, all in bloom, so much green—the light, vibrant green of new grass—so many birds singing and such warm, buttery sunshine. Nesta felt like a storm cloud standing amid it all. But Elain … The Spring Court had been made for someone like her.

For years he’d done laundry, because he was only home over the weekends and that was the least he could do, because he knew how much she hated doing laundry. It was an act of love that had meant more than all the flowers in the world he could have bought her. As soon as she made reporter, he stopped helping around the house.

These are flowers that come from a very plain-looking bulb that must be planted deep in the ground and weather the cold winter in order to bloom in the spring. They remind me of the fact that growing into yourself isn’t always a pretty process, and that’s okay. I look at bulb flowers as a metaphor to point out that sometimes we become strong, beautiful, and vibrant from being surrounded by mud and facing the cold with grace and steadfastness.

She was studying a nearby bush covered with vibrant yellow pompom flowers. "Wattle," he said. "Golden wattle," she corrected. "You're right." "Did you know," she began, "that the seedlings from a golden wattle can live for up to fifty years?" "That so?" "That's a long time." "It is." "How old are you?" "Younger than fifty." He was thirty-six, in fact. "Wattle seeds are germinated by bushfires." Evie Turner nodded with vague disdain toward her parents, still engaged in heated discussion in the distance. "She's frightened of bushfires. That's because she's English. But I'm not. I'm Australian and golden wattles are my favorite flower and I'm not going to live in England no matter what she thinks." With that, before Percy had a chance to tell her that golden wattles were his favorite, too, she'd run off to join the adults, sun-browned legs leaping over fallen logs with the expertise of one who seemed more familiar with this lonely place than she ought to be.

I turned just in time to witness closing time on a vine of moonflowers. Their bright-white petals glowed under moonlight and shut down at the first hint of daylight. I stood there mesmerized, watching their twelve-inch-wide dinner-plate-sized flowers simultaneously folding up to nothing, like hundreds of slamming doors. I'd always thought of flowers as still and beautiful. It was strange to see them in such a blur of self-generated motion. Sonali had mentioned the moonflower. She'd told me if I ever came across one not to cut it or take it out of the earth. I remembered her exact words: The vine of the moonflower is an umbilical cord connecting all women to the moon. Take special notice of the plants, such as this one, that jump out at you in the moonlight, lost in the daytime to louder, more vibrant types. They are females. They will help heal the female parts of you that have been hurt.

Up till now some of it will endure in my reminiscence unflinching and vibrant. (I may have passed on reading a bewitched story with I was never- ever meant to read about my family, and the hex of losing everything that I loved, I wonder if the girls set me up for this one?) I can hear whispers, whispers I can feel, whispers that used to give me a thrill, whispers from the ones that kill, whispers that give me a chill, I recall whispers while trying to find love, I hear them whispering, just like the girl in the story that I should have known, that I may need to find. Even so, I have to comprehend it is all that I want to think of, and not what they choose for me to arouse, I was forbidden to see her… nevertheless, I did, the day before my end. I hear a soft voice! After that moment with her- You know I think that life is all optimal; one can either select to live comfortably or choose to live in fear, and that is what I did the fear of not fitting in and they kill me for it. They're still killing me, every day not to find out what I love the most, and that is not my girlfriends, it comes down to two. I ask him to do more for me, yet is he? Or has he, or has she done it all for me, that is the question. I know that someday he will answer me, and if he doesn’t, she will! I feel I want her to; she is the one the most like me, and I feel she needs me more. And I love that about her she needs me, and that is love. Yet I feel like this- There is nothing to do in this here for me, or then her or should it be him? I know that my dad would disown me for dating a girl, so- I don’t get what I should do. I use things like with a boy anyway, so I should just go with the real thing inside me, I am not a lez-bo! But that girl could sway me- I don’t know. There is just a glow in my mouth- like all the white teeth teens want me to be, it’s all spitting out, yet I have swallowed it, yet they don’t. Look at my eyes with bloodshot eyes, with tears running down her cheeks, and everything in-between feeling the same, you could even see all the welt markings of all their words, yet you can’t see them. She did not even know her name… so she was named after his favorite flower, which he had everywhere in his home as I remember. There is nowhere to go, no one to see… and no one or two, which cares about me. How can I live a life of ecstasy? If infrequently one cannot have a choice, yet I want to pick this if I have anticipation, if I have the preference to. Well, I have to live with the consequences of an entity life with me next to me and even inside me and some, I call my friends. Everyone has to bow down to them, I have been blown to yet not always the way you think I have, my live a life abortion, ripping out my heart blood dripping down my arm, and the demons I just hoping fly out of my piss so, I can strangle them with my come! Yeah, I am the only girl that will say that out loud!

Nesta's throat constricted, and she surveyed the swaying cherry blossoms overhead. Elain would love this place. So many flowers, all in bloom, so much green- the light, vibrant green of new grass- so many birds singing and such warm, buttery sunshine. Nesta felt like a storm cloud standing amid it all. But Elain... The Spring Court had been made for someone like her. Too bad her sister refused to see her. Nesta would have told Elain to visit this place. And too bad the lord who ruled these lands was a piece of shit.

It was excruciating, watching what had once been a vibrant and beautiful flower wilt and dehydrate in slow motion.

Jane and Noah fell silent as she opened it to the first page, a vibrant watercolor of a forest-green shrub laden with dark purple fruits, with the fruits shown in detail in a separate drawing. 'Aristotelia chilensis--- maqui berries,' said Jane. 'Full of antioxidants and touted as a "superfood" now.' There was a note in pencil at the bottom of the page. 'Leaves used for brewing chicha,' Noah read. 'Whatever that is. "Sore throats, heals wounds, painkiller",' he continued. 'Extraordinary. I can't believe the condition it's in. It's scarcely aged at all.' He turned the page to find a painting of a tall, oak-like tree with dark brown bark, oval-shaped green leaves and dense white flowers. 'Quillaja saponaria--- soapbark,' he read. 'Native soap, for the lungs and good health.

It was then that a divine scent reached her nostrils. It was the most alluring fragrance she had ever smelled: sweet but not cloying, with a fresh undertone and a lingering spiciness. Like vanilla and jasmine and sweetbriar and sandalwood, but somehow more than all of those. She inhaled deeply, looking for the source of the intoxicating aroma. Two steps further on and then there it was, partly hidden behind an acacia bush. The most beautiful white flowers, petals striped with purple, bloomed along thick green stems. Drawing closer, she saw that the deep purple-black stamens were topped with orange pollen so vibrant it appeared to almost glow in the fading light.

There is something about being in the presence of nature that rejuvenates my mind in a way I cannot fully explain. In the natural world we are all men, we are all equals, we are humbled by those unshakeable details. The sun, the moon, the sky – they remain unchanged by our existence. As vibrant or diaphanous as they appear, they are not dictated by us, our petty whims, our endless wars, our great loves, our unquenchable grief. They are within our sight, but we are not within theirs. We are separated by invisible fault lines. I am made reverent by this notion. It gives me life.

Ross’s “arbitrage pricing theory” and Rosenberg’s “bionic betas” posited that the returns of any financial security are the result of several systematic factors. Although seemingly stating the obvious, this was a seminal moment in the move toward a more vibrant understanding of markets. The eclectic Rosenberg was even put on the cover of Institutional Investor in May 1978, the bald, mustachioed man depicted as a giant meditating guru with flowers in his hair, worshipped by a gathering of besuited portfolio managers. The headline was “Who Is Barr Rosenberg? And What the Hell Is He Talking About?”8 What he was talking about was how academics were beginning to classify stocks according to not just their industry or their geography, but their financial characteristics. And some of these characteristics might actually prove to deliver better long-term returns than the broader stock market. In 1973, Sanjoy Basu, a finance professor at McMaster University in Ontario, published a paper that indicated that companies with low stock prices relative to their earnings did better than the efficient-markets hypothesis would suggest. Essentially, he showed that the value investing principles espoused by Benjamin Graham in the 1930s—which revolved around buying cheap, out-of-favor stocks trading below their intrinsic worth—was a durable investment factor. By systematically buying all cheap stocks, investors could in theory beat the broader market over time. Then Banz showed the same for small caps, another big moment in the evolution of factor investing. Follow-up studies on smaller stocks in Japan and the UK showed similar results, so in 1986 DFA launched dedicated small-cap funds for those two markets as well. In the early 1990s, finance professors Narasimhan Jegadeesh and Sheridan Titman published a paper indicating that simply surfing market momentum—in practice buying stocks that were already bouncing and selling those that were sliding—could also produce market-beating returns.9 The reasons for these apparent anomalies divide academics. Efficient-markets disciples stipulate that they are the compensation investors receive for taking extra risks. Value stocks, for example, are often found in beaten-up, unpopular, and shunned companies, such as boring industrial conglomerates in the middle of the dotcom bubble. While they can underperform for long stretches, eventually their underlying worth shines through and rewards investors who kept the faith. Small stocks do well largely because small companies are more likely to fail than bigger ones. Behavioral economists, on the other hand, argue that factors tend to be the product of our irrational human biases. For example, just like how we buy pricey lottery tickets for the infinitesimal chance of big wins, investors tend to overpay for fast-growing, glamorous stocks, and unfairly shun duller, steadier ones. Smaller stocks do well because we are illogically drawn to names we know well. The momentum factor, on the other hand, works because investors initially underreact to news but overreact in the long run, or often sell winners too quickly and hang on to bad bets for far longer than is advisable.

Embrace the beauty of Ireland through nature's exquisite artistry. Discover the finest Irish flowers that bloom with grace, color, and enchantment. Let Best Irish Flowers be your gateway to a world where blossoms whisper stories of love, joy, and heartfelt sentiments. From vibrant gardens to delicate arrangements, immerse yourself in the essence of Ireland's floral treasures. Let the flowers speak, and let your heart be captivated by their timeless elegance.

Spring is the season of blooming flowers, chirping birds, and fresh beginnings. As nature awakens from its winter slumber, so too does our spirit. It's a time to shake off the frosty negative cobwebs, embrace the warmth of the sun on our faces, and revel in the beauty of renewal all around us. Let's sow the seeds of our dreams and watch them bloom alongside the daffodils and tulips. Spring is nature's way of reminding us that even the darkest winters eventually give way to brighter days.

Tropical flowers are nature's vibrant masterpieces, showcasing a show of colors, shapes, and spices that allure the senses. From the lush rainforests of South America to the paradisiacal islets of Southeast Asia

An underachieving person’s potential is sometimes like a sleeping seed, waiting for the right conditions to grow into the vibrant flower it can be.

Some of the details changed as the decades passed, but it was always on the beach. Somewhere exotic and warm, with waving palm trees before me and the ocean behind me. A soft dress flowing around my bare feet. My toes buried in the sand. And my hands clutching a bouquet of tropical flowers. The vibrant colors reflected back in the setting sun.

True Story:- Once upon a time, there was a man named Shree Om who, along with more than three hundred individuals, set out on a journey to visit the largest tulip garden in the world, located across various realms of the earth. This journey had been planned meticulously for many months. However, on that particular day, nature seemed to be against them. The sky was covered with dark clouds, and it was raining. Advanced weather monitoring systems from Space station had predicted heavy rainfall for the day. Nevertheless, Shree Om, with his compassionate nature, kindly order the king of the heaven, Indra, to intervene and temporarily stop the rain to prevent disruption to their plans. The dark clouds that veiled the sky and the pouring rain were dispelled by Shreeom's command, allowing everyone, including more than twenty thousands who had gathered from various places, to enjoy the vibrant colors of the flowers in the garden. Indra swiftly removed the clouds and cleared the sky to welcome the sun for Shreeom's arrival. SriOm told his first Yog to Pashupatinath (Bhabam), to the Sun and divinity in the beginning of his knowledge. Shreeom, at his will, could turn bodies of water into tranquil seas, rivers for bathing and swimming as well as to create Brahma, but at that moment, he chose to the humble path and cooperated with Mahalaxmi, the sun, moon, stars and various Devi Devtas to ensure harmony and sustenance in the universe. Shree Om is the Vishnu himself. Shree Om and Mahalaxmi represented the divine consort, illustrating the profound interconnectedness and balance in the cosmic universal order. Shreeom, along with Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, the various gods and goddesses, and especially Mahalakshmi Bhavani, along with the sun, moon, and the constellations of stars, collectively uphold and create the entire universe.

She'd like to be that flowering stem, she told me, swaying in peace: vibrant, free, cradled and sustained by nothing but air.

Embrace Efficiency, Elevate Flavor: Smart Kitchen Tools for Culinary Adventurers The kitchen, once a realm of necessity, has morphed into a playground of possibility. Gone are the days of clunky appliances and tedious prep work. Enter the age of the smart kitchen tool, a revolution that whispers efficiency and shouts culinary liberation. For the modern gastronome, these tech-infused gadgets are not mere conveniences, but allies in crafting delectable adventures, freeing us to savor the journey as much as the destination. Imagine mornings when your smart coffee maker greets you with the perfect brew, prepped by the whispers of your phone while you dream. Your fridge, stocked like a digital oracle, suggests recipes based on its ever-evolving inventory, and even automatically orders groceries you've run low on. The multi-cooker, your multitasking superhero, whips up a gourmet chili while you conquer emails, and by dinnertime, your smart oven roasts a succulent chicken to golden perfection, its progress monitored remotely as you sip a glass of wine. But efficiency is merely the prologue. Smart kitchen tools unlock a pandora's box of culinary precision. Smart scales, meticulous to the milligram, banish recipe guesswork and ensure perfect balance in every dish. Food processors and blenders, armed with pre-programmed settings and self-cleaning prowess, transform tedious chopping into a mere blip on the culinary radar. And for the aspiring chef, a sous vide machine becomes a magic wand, coaxing impossible tenderness from the toughest cuts of meat. Yet, technology alone is not the recipe for culinary bliss. For those who yearn to paint with flavors, smart kitchen tools are the brushes on their canvas. A connected recipe platform becomes your digital sous chef, guiding you through each step with expert instructions and voice-activated ease. Spice racks, infused with artificial intelligence, suggest unexpected pairings, urging you to venture beyond the familiar. And for the ultimate expression of your inner master chef, a custom knife, forged from heirloom steel and lovingly honed, becomes an extension of your hand, slicing through ingredients with laser focus and lyrical grace. But amidst the symphony of gadgets and apps, let us not forget the heart of the kitchen: the human touch. Smart tools are not meant to replace our intuition but to augment it. They free us from the drudgery, allowing us to focus on the artistry, the love, the joy of creation. Imagine kneading dough, the rhythm of your hands mirroring the gentle whirring of a smart bread machine, then shaping a loaf that holds the warmth of both technology and your own spirit. Or picture yourself plating a dish, using smart portion scales for precision but garnishing with edible flowers chosen simply because they spark joy. This, my friends, is the symphony of the smart kitchen: a harmonious blend of tech and humanity, where efficiency becomes the brushstroke that illuminates the vibrant canvas of culinary passion. Of course, every adventure, even one fueled by smart tools, has its caveats. Interoperability between gadgets can be a tangled web, and data privacy concerns linger like unwanted guests. But these challenges are mere bumps on the culinary road, hurdles to be overcome by informed choices and responsible data management. After all, we wouldn't embark on a mountain trek without checking the weather, would we? So, embrace the smart kitchen, dear foodies! Let technology be your sous chef, your precision tool, your culinary muse. But never forget the magic of your own hands, the wisdom of your palate, and the joy of a meal shared with loved ones. For in the end, it's not about the gadgets, but the memories we create around them, the stories whispered over simmering pots, and the laughter echoing through a kitchen filled with the aroma of possibility.

I love the commanding tone of your voice and how it falls in gentle rhythms. I love how you dance like the waves and pull me in with your tide. You're every ounce as beautiful as the sea and every bit as wild. You have no idea the extent how vibrantly you glow, but perhaps you're learning. And I love that. I love you." A flutter in my chest multiplies, blooming and blooming and blooming, like the kaleidoscope in my dream. Only this time, it doesn't shatter. It holds me there in that rose-gold glow. I burst, but in a way that's expansive, not destructive. I leap forward, pressing my lips to his, obliterated by the dew-damp softness. His eyes widen as he pulls away. I gape at him, flushed. "I---I'm sorry." He hesitates, but then he pounces, drawing me towards his embrace and crushing my open mouth. It happens so fast. He grabs me by the thighs, welling up my skirt as he carries me out of the water. My fingers curl through his hair, and novas explode as he slips his tongue onto mine. He holds me tighter, kissing me over and over again like repeating a melody. It's as natural as language, as wild as the roaring sea. We fall to the ground, and a bed of flowers blossoms beneath us, pale pink and soft. The velvet petals tangle in my hair as he presses into me--- skin on skin, blooming with wild heat. We fold into each other, our arms coiling like serpents, my fingers tracing his body. He pulls away for just a moment, but only to study me like the rarest opal, admiring my every color and curve before kissing my lips--- sweet and soft and slow. We repeat the motions in a ritual that's only our own. I try to catch my thoughts, but they're all tangled up . Though, there's one thing I know for sure. Through my unsteady breathing, I whisper, "I love you, too." Despite what the Devil thinks, I am capable of love, and I won't let him win, not now. Damien and I collapse into the damp petals, surrendering to the night.

Angels waltz around like in one of my daydreams, glitter-dusted as the faeries I was warned about as a child. They're mystic, with spindly limbs and gossamer hair and skin that glows. Their wings unfurl behind them, some gilded and others adorned with pale pink shimmer. They flutter across the flower-filled glade, twirling like falling feathers. A few of the angels thread starlight into garlands or coax the flowers to bloom. A train of them braid baby's breath into one another's hair. Others lay fruit in front of what looks like shrines--- seashells brimming with water and floating petals that gleam with reflections of the moon. It's like something out of a storybook. Lanterns are strung between the evergreens, casting their light over a long table. On top of a silk tablecloth, candelabras drip with wax and flowers are strewn about--- cerise roses, vibrant marigolds, velvet violets, and pale bluebells. Fresh fruit spills out of a giant shell like a cornucopia--- mangoes, peaches, guavas, champagne grapes and deep red cherries. Dark wine fills crystal cups. Rose-jam tarts with wild raspberries and hibiscus petals pile alongside tea cakes piped with custard and sugared primroses. In the center of the feast is a roasted duck glazed with honey and decorated with slices of pineapple. The smell of buttered potatoes lingers in the air, fragrant with hints of rosemary and garlic.

The gardens surrounding the palace and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha were spectacularly beautiful, full of vibrant colors, the smell of jasmine pervading everything. Harry stopped in front of an exquisite flowering plant with delicate blooms of soft pink and white. "Orchids," he murmured. "They grew in the foliage around Changi, and I've seen them everywhere since I arrived in Bangkok. They are rare in England." "They are like weeds here," said Lidia. "Golly! I wish we had weeds at home like this," Harry said, thinking he must take some back to his mother.

The title on the front of the sketchbook was written in bold cursive: 'Libby's Book of Butterflies.' One of the edges was folded, and she smoothed it with her hand, reverently, to honor the sister she'd never known. Then she stepped back under the light and flipped through the first pages. There were beautiful paintings of butterflies, their wings bright from the watercolors. Did her sister create this book or did someone make it for her? Mum had loved her gardens, but Heather had never known her to do any kind of artwork. She'd always been busy planting her flowers and working as a hairdresser and caring well for their family. Intrigued, Heather slowly turned the pages. The butterflies were unique in their brilliance, each one with a magical name. Golden Shimmer. Moonlit Fairy. Lavender Lace. Under the butterflies were short descriptions. Like they all had different personalities. Her favorite was the Autumn Dancer, colored a vibrant orange and red with speckles of teal. It reminded her of a leaf, clinging to its branch before the autumn winds blew it away.

She was always fearful the profusion of flowers decorating her front porch might irritate her neighbors and draw unwanted attention. Bright, fragrant petunias cascaded down like waterfalls from huge hanging baskets attached to the porch railing. Massive planters held ferns the size of ceiling fan blades; the ferns stood sentry over mounds of multicolored impatiens in such abundance they resembled the vibrant blur of a Monet landscape.

Madeline Hatter was in the Enchanted Forest by sunrise, the best time of day to find charm blossoms. The vibrant pink flowers bloomed only in the morning, twirling on their stems toward the rising sun. Maddie added a few to her basket of wild peppermint, chamomile flowers, and dragon scales. A white rabbit paused nearby, sniffing some clover. “How

... and she was awed to see that vibrant life still struggled to thrive despite such destruction.

The small corner market had rows of fresh flowers in white plastic buckets. Standing, the early fall sun on her shoulders, she opened her mind. She assessed the fuchsia roses and violet freesias, vibrant orange and gerbera daisies. Willowy snapdragons.

I love to create vibrant, whimsical floral compositions that are either executed with one single hue or the opposite: a blend of multiple colors!

The pictures she drew on were vibrant as ever, though. The crumbling stone farmstead overlooking the great Luberon valley where she was born. The blending room of the distillery in Manosque where she had experienced a kind of rebirth, beginning the transformation into the woman she was now. Scent was memory, and memory a complex blend of scent and emotion: the perfect flowers of the lavender hills, like millions of mauve butterflies fluttering on stalks; the violet; the heliotrope of home, with its heart of sweet almond and cherry vanilla. She mixed them all into her signature fragrance Lavande de Nuit, along with a breath of civet musk and a haunting trace of smoke.

This year Britain has become our last stronghold. A fortress defended with small aircraft flown by these strange, unknown young men.’ His glance flicked over Andrew and Bryan. ‘But are they unknown? Look at them and you will realise you do know them. They are our sons, our nephews, friends of our sons and daughters. Each a vibrant spark of God’s beloved humanity. All of them welcome in our houses and at our tables. ‘Cast your mind back a few short years. We watched them in those summer days when our stronghold was nothing but their playground. They picnicked on the village greens amongst the sweet bird-chatter. They laughed and played on the beaches, kicking the water with bare toes. And later they watched and then loved the young girls dressed in coloured frocks like the most wonderful of God’s flowers. ‘Now the flowers have faded to khaki and the bird-chatter is stilled under the clattering machines of war. These young men have stepped forward, separated in their blue, to become the winged warriors at the end of the trails that track the vaults above our heads. ‘George has gone, but he is not so far away that he cannot still see England’s face. The woods he played in, the fields he crossed, the town where he grew up and the prettiest flowers that remain unpicked. ‘He has flown on English air to a new world. But he can still see the world he knew just a few days past. And, in our hearts, we may yet see his frozen trail looped white across the heavens. For the air was his kingdom and he was a shield for those who lived under his wings. ‘His brief life has been given up as a ransom, that we might one day be free again. He has given up the richness of days not yet lived, the chance to hear his child’s voice and the solace of true love to ease his years of frailty. All this lost in a moment of willing sacrifice. ‘No thanks we may give him can weigh sufficiently against what he gave. But the clouds in our English skies can entwine with our eternal remembrance and together we may bind a wreath of honour that is worthy for his grave.’ ◆◆◆

As he began to strum his harp, he filled his mind with images of earth. Old crumbling stones and tangled grasses and wildflowers and weeds and saplings that put down deep roots, growing into mighty trees. The color of dirt, the scent of it. How it felt clutched in the hollow of one’s palm. The voice of branches swaying in the breeze, and the slope of the earth as it rose and fell, faithful and steady. Jack closed his eyes and began to sing. He didn’t want to see the spirits manifest, but he heard the grass hissing near his knees, and he heard the tree boughs groaning above him, and he heard the scratch of stone, as if two were being rubbed together. When he heard Adaira’s soft gasp, Jack opened his eyes. The spirits were forming themselves, gathering around him to listen. He played and sang and watched as the trees became maidens with long arms and hair made of leaves. The grass and pennywort knotted themselves into what looked to be mortal lads, small and green. The stones found their faces like old men waking from a long dream. The wildflowers broke their stems and gathered into the shape of a woman with long dark hair and eyes the color of honeysuckle, her skin purple as the heather that bloomed on the hills. Yellow gorse crowned her, and she waited beside the Earie Stone, whose face was still forming, craggy and ancient. As Jack played Lorna’s ballad he felt as if he was slowly sinking into the earth. His limbs were becoming heavy, and he drooped like a flower wilting beneath a fierce sun. It was like the sensation of falling asleep. He swore he saw daisies blooming from his fingertips, and every time he plucked his strings the petals broke away but regrew just as swiftly. And his ankles…he couldn’t move them, the tree roots had begun to take hold of him. His hair was turning into grass, green and long and tangled, and as the song ended he struggled to remember who he was, that he was mortal, a man. Someone was coming to him, bright as a fallen star, and he felt her hands on his face, blissfully cold. “Please,” the woman said, but not to him. She beseeched the wildflower spirit with her long dark hair and crown of vibrant gorse. “Please, this man belongs to me. You cannot claim him.” “Why, mortal woman,” one of the pennywort lads said from the ground, his words raspy as summer hay falling to a scythe. “Why did you sit so far away from him? We thought he sang to be taken by us.” Jack snapped out of the haze. Adaira was kneeling beside him, her hand shifting to his arm. He was stricken to see that he had truly been turning into the earth—grass, flowers, and roots. His harp clattered from his tingling hands; he struggled to breathe as he watched his body return to him. “He is mine, and he played to bring you forth by my command,” Adaira said calmly. “I long to speak to you, spirits of the earth.

He noticed some flowers growing where Joshua had just relieved himself. Lush blossoms of a half-dozen vibrant colors stood surrounded by the deadest landscape on the planet. “Hey, were those there yesterday?” “That always happens,” I said. “We don’t talk about it.

We say that we mourn the dead, and there is some truth in that. We lament the flower frozen in full bloom, cut off at the moment of promise, or another long wilted, whose slow fading and drawn-out, painful diminishment cast a shadow over a vibrant and glorious past.

We say that we mourn the dead, and there is some truth in that. We lament the flower frozen in full bloom, cut off at the moment of promise, or another long wilted, whose slow fading and drawn-out, painful diminishment cast a shadow over a vibrant and glorious past. And yet. Once the eyes are closed and the heart is stilled, we come to understand that the worst of the pain has passed. For them. The dead have no more use for pain, for memory or regret. Regret is for the living. And so when we stand at the bedside, the graveside, the casket, our mourning is less for the beloved departed than it is for ourselves. We mourn the missed opportunity, the word unspoken or spoken in haste, the hole in our lives and the unsettling of our souls, our own disappointments and the loss of innocence. We gaze upon the stillness that is unending and feel our self-importance crack and the myth of our immortality smash. We stare upon the face of death to see ourselves more clearly, to satisfy our curiosity, to make peace with the inescapable.

I present... the courtyard!" The curtain slid away to reveal a wall of glass. Several production workers slid the transparent panels along the tracks until the entire room opened up onto a massive outdoor kitchen. The contestants filed outside, stunned by the extravagance. It doubled the size of their workspace. Stovetops and grills were set into brick counters. Refrigerators were tucked safely under a canvas canopy. And best of all- most thrilling of all- was a lush, vibrant perennial border that surrounded the entire kitchen, filled with edible plants, herbs, and flowers. Bright orange nasturtiums nodded in the afternoon sunshine, tender peas twined about a chicken wire fence. Bees hovered over patches of fuzzy thyme. Sophia laughed out loud. This was utterly delightful. "Your dream come true, Miss Garden Fairy?" The Scot's thick arms crossed his chest. He looked utterly disinterested. "There are fully-stocked pantries inside, as well. But the outdoor facility takes advantage of our beautiful Vermont landscape. Edibles in the garden." Mr. Smith pointed to glass-fronted coolers. "Local cheeses and other dairy products." He sauntered over to the canopied area and the cameras followed him. Baskets of fresh produce lined the tables. "We locally farmed proteins, fruits, and vegetables. Honey. Maple syrup. Anything and everything you can imagine." He took a perfectly ripe strawberry from one of the boxes and popped it into his mouth.

No matter what the tree, they all grow from one seed, which takes root and branches out. Meditation is like the lotus tree. Rich with many, many layers, leaves and petals. It blossoms to be a vibrant flower, but at its core, it is the same, basic principle, ~ the seed you plant.

Madeline Hatter was in the Enchanted Forest by sunrise, the best time of day to find charm blossoms. The vibrant pink flowers bloomed only in the morning, twirling on their stems toward the rising sun. Maddie added a few to her basket of wild peppermint, chamomile flowers, and dragon scales.

Claire's memory flashed to their wedding day, to her vibrant happiness. To Kirk's loving hand around her, steadying her as they stood in front of the church full of people. To her, that day had beenperfect, despite the rain, the mix-up about flowers, her father's rambling speech. She and Kirk had been in love. They truly had. And now he'd fallen in love with someone else. Their marriage had ended after just twelve years. The ramifications crashed through her mind. She was going to be on her own, raising three children. Would she have to go back to work? Put the girls in after-school care? Then in seven months… Oh, God. What was she going to do?

The sun descends as I make my way into the forest, sapphire hues painting the night like a jewel. Lanterns flicker in the distance, guiding me forward. The spread Amelia has set up is illuminated by tall magenta candles bathing the table with a rosy glow. In the center, there's a tiered cake with vanilla frosting, decorated with pink pansies, marigolds, and violets. Beside it is a summer salad with juicy peaches, soft cheese, and pitted cherries--- a perfect pairing to the bruschetta topped with diced tomatoes. Different fruits are scattered across the table, sliced open to show off their vibrant innards--- blood oranges, figs, and plums. Everyone is dressed in white with bright flowers crowning their heads. Carmella pours sangria into crystal cups while Yvette helps Amelia string more lights in the trees. Roisin is seated beside Serena, adding tiny braids into her hair and placing daisies between the plaits.