The repetition of this post, which first ran on April 5, 2021, and then again almost exactly a year ago, is out of my hands. I go outside for my morning walk, brooding on my bad habits; I look around the garden to see what’s not working now; and oh glory, oh sweet child of joy, the minor bulbs are blooming, they’re flourishing (“flourish,” from “florire,” to flower), they’re yelling all over the garden. How can I not?
