Unfurling

I like this word. The thought of something curled up and tiny opening and stretching and breathing really lifts my spirit. There is much of it going on these days, too.

Petals and leaves are doing most of it, and it's a wonder every year. How could I stand those long months of shivering, naked trees? How could they?

My story is also unfurling, albeit at a painfully slow rate. I have spent some time retracing the snowchild's footsteps. It's a horrible feeling when the main plot slips through your mind's fingers every time you try to grasp it.

But I have you now, young man, and I know where you've been and why, and I'm not letting you sneak off again.

Meanwhile, a certain rascal ballerina is unfur-ing. There isn't a surface in our home that isn't graced by a few silky, white strands of hair. I have white tufts of fur on all my clothes and in my tea and (bizarrely) in my hair. So sweet of you to share, little one!

(Using this photo is cheating a little, I admit. It was taken in Berkeley two years ago. But just you wait. Schous Plass will be bursting with pink flowers pretty soon.)