Lessons From the Kissing Booth

So we made it through January with our skin intact. Most of what we had planned on and much that we couldn't have foreseen was smashed or vanished or both, and perhaps our laughter has gone a little mad, but whatever; all movement counts as a victory. We inventoried what we had. Our skins, of course. Our friendships and our love of dance parties. Our much diminished but not quite killed flame of magic and romance and adventure and the romance of adventure. It's a little silly to count an attempt at brute force optimism in the wins column, since there isn't really any other option, but even false hope is a softer landing than none at all. These are thin times for good news; good luck and hard work have not been on my side for quite a while. I suppose that like any other skill, getting happy takes practice. I'm not naturally gifted at much, but I'd rather not let the hummingbirds down when they reveal whatever their secrets are.

All last year I tried to grow chamomile, but it never made much of a showing. The pot that it was in was taken over by showier but less valuable herbs, and I chalked the whole thing up to a valuable lesson about the futility of starting things from seeds. Improbably this winter it has sprung into being, practically enjoying becoming covered in snow. They say that its flowers should be harvested on clear mornings before the sun has stolen the scent. Perhaps more to the point, they also say that chamomile has the power to remove curses and spells, to attract love and money and luck. Chamomile has always been more of a working plant than a symbolic one; no one gives a gift of fresh chamomile. Curses or no curses, it's a nice surprise to find that the seeds I had given up on are unexpectedly unseasonably bearing flowers. Maybe that's all the luck I need.