This is my cyclamen. Well, this is the little one, the little one that I put outside all summer and almost didn't bring inside because it was doing nothing but growng leaves.
Well, I thought, at least it provide a bit of green on the window sill.
So, I brought it inside and about a week ago I noticed little pink buds. Now, it has actually bloomed. All by itself, without anything but a glug of water now and then.
Not like it's brother, who I paid $10.00 for less than two months ago. It had lots of blooms and lots and lots of buds and looked like it would be a wonderful winter plant, bringing a great big splash of color into winter's gray days.
Ha! It had other ideas. It came home and started to sulk and pretty soon it quit blooming. Then it's leaves turned yellow and lost their integrity.
Minkey, Mr. Annoying Cat, was the only one who was getting any joy out of it. He chewed up its leaves, not the sad, droopy ones, the ones that were still green and vibrant.
And then, Minkey, the annoying cat, tried to throw-up leaf-induced-fur-balls, which was a failure. He threw up green gunk which Phil always noticed and I did not. (I will spare you photo's of Minkey's contribution.)
"Your cat has thrown up a fur ball," he would say.
I would cringe. Why didn't I notice and clean it up before he saw it? I notice nothing, that's why. And why is it "my cat?"
At times I consider myself an amateur artist. But aren't artists the great noticer-of-things in the world? Don't they go around saying things like, "Look at that sky and that awful burned looking tree. I think I'll just paint that and make those stars look like I saw them with eye astigmatism's--that maybe could be cured by a good eye doctor, if there were such a thing in this day and age--and someday it will sell for a few hundred million dollars after I'm dead and gone."
Now, don't send me hate mail. Starry Night is probably my favorite paintings of all time. What I'm saying here is Van Gogh noticed things.
So, I guess I can't call my self an artist. Also, due to the fact that I haven't picked up a brush for almost two years might have something to do with it.
But, really and truly I don't notice things. For instance, I didn't notice that there is a whole scene in the window behind the blooming Cyclamen. A scene that for the life of me I don't know what is. I do know that the door is open, that's the door to the pantry and--I hate to admit this--it is always open. But what is all that dark stuff in the corner, one of the dark splotches looks like a heart. I am not a country clutter person with hearts and ducks and other stuff all over the place. I am a clutter person, it's true but its usually cluttered stacks of paper.
I'll be right back.
Okay, there is NOTHING THERE! No large black stuff, no black heart. Nothing. Nothing except dust, which is also part of my life because I'd rather write and stack, re-stack, and stuff papers in odd places than dust. I'd rather do laundry. Mmm, I love the smell of freshly done laundry. I sometimes open the washer and watch the clothes wash--I don't know why, it fascinates me. I'd rather load the dishwasher but not un-load it. I'd rather read blogs.
So, the black stuff is a mystery. It's also a mystery why a ten dollar plant deserts beauty for being interesting and a humble, four dollar, two-year-old plant puts forth it's best effort to bring color into my life.