Today, wandering up to the studio on a day that began with rain and turned to sun, I'm thinking of my own mother, who I lost almost exactly six years ago; of the children I never had myself; and the people who've become as dear to me as if they were those children, but are friends besides.
There are dark purple violets blooming in the alleys - my mother's favorite flower. And muguet de bois, lilies of the valley, with which I filled the house on the day we said goodbye to her. In so many ways, she's never left -- and what continuing solace and strength I've found in remembering her. She'd be glad of that.