1.  Last night at the Maundy Thursday service, Thea washed my feet.  Someday when I’m a writer, I will write about this subversive act, and limn it in all its power.

2.  Last night I was awakened at 3 a.m. by a policeman banging on the front door to tell me that someone had broken into the trunk of my car.  Nothing stolen, though.  I guess they didn’t want my shovel or book on how to draw the female form.  (Oh, Grainger Avenue.  I will miss you.)

3.  My tuberous begonia, after finishing its blooming season, is putting out new leaves at the rate of one every three weeks or so!  Shocking!

4.  I burnt a circle on my housemate’s wooden-topped island.  I’m sure she must have an idea of me as an aggravating little sister.  Accident-prone.  Which, it seems, I am.  I guess I’m a gift to the world, because I require forgiveness from people.  I wish I was instead a gift to the world because I required humility from people.  (Because I was so awesome.)

5.  All but six basil plants are in the ground, all but two tomatoes, all sage, all sunflowers.  Tiny rosemary shoots and bell pepper shoots remain, with cells of mystery seeds.  I think the only ones that haven’t come up yet must be rosemary and bell peppers.

6.  But in the beds!  In the beds!  The UT cosmos are coming up, the cornflowers are victoriously up, the Bells of Ireland are up and doing famously.  The red sunflowers are strong as oxen, and the Missouri sunflowers are slowly and steadily joining them.  (These are from seeds I got from the sunflowers in Marshall’s grandfather’s backyard, in MO.)  I sowed Bells of Ireland seeds in MO sunflower cells when I thought they weren’t going to come up, so where I planted the MO’s Bells are poking up all around.  It’s so wonderful to see their urge to live.

7.  The beets are doing better since I surreptitiously broke off a branch from the neighbor’s tree that was shading them.  They’re looking serious, now.

8.  I think I need to plant the remaining basil in the front yard.  I don’t know what’s the matter with the basil I already planted — whatever killed them early last fall must still be in the soil, there.  I wish I hadn’t planted them there.  Oh well.

9.  All three of my established rosemary bushes, in the same vein, have fuzzy white fungus.  I pruned them yesterday to increase airflow and sprayed them down with baking soda and water.  We’ll see.  I hope they don’t get sick.  I need them.

10.  But the hydrangeas are happy, and the morning glories.

11.  And the roses are happy.  And when the roses, in their L of beauty, are thriving — I must thrive.  As this is their second year from the transplant, I pruned them mercilessly, and they have not stopped thanking me.  There are parables, here.  The tiny bush that I forgot existed is putting out delicately-colored lemon-yellow blooms with salmon edges.  The yellow bush is peppered with buds, and the deep red bush has already bloomed twice with huge, heavy roses the color of the red, red rose.  Some indefinite blend of crimson and magenta, set in every petal with velvet, and the sparkle of magic.

12.  The peach and pink roses are burgeoning as well, and their frangrace is so fruity, so different from the classic rose scent.  When I smelled the deep red roses yesterday, I breathed in the scent over and over, huge lungfulls, and thought about a world whose air was the scent of roses.  And I now realize that this world does exist: it exists in the three square inches at the face of the flower, when my nose is in it.  So, there’s some powerful magic for you.  See for yourself.