That the world is new to me every day seems ridiculous and sounds trite, but it's true. Why just yesterday I believed that the hordes of bushes greening by the east side of my new house were roses, but they're not. They're blackberries. And so this summer there will be more blackberries than the bears and I can eat. I will have to drop them by the buckets at the neighbor's and their neighbor's, leave them for the mailman, and bring them to every event.
As it turns out, the whole world operates like a blackberry bush. Take love, for instance. Love is not stagnant but always shifting, simultaneously rooting and deracinating, growing into something so surprising it hardly resembles its original form. How comforting (in an agonizing kind of way) to know that things are rarely what they seem--roses are not blackberries--and nothing stays the same forever. How beautifully absurd that tomorrow the world will be new again, that the bushes and the bears and love and I will be different than we are right now.
