Paperwhites

Three facts are deeply ingrained in my conscience right now. #1. Today is January 16th. #2. January 16th is squarely planted in winter, not spring. #3. Spring is decidedly less snowy and bitingly cold.

But by some miracle of science and nature, my body has been fooled into thinking otherwise by the intoxicatingly sweet smell of paperwhites. Earlier in the week, I bought some spring flowers at the market to give to a dear friend and the leftovers have made me loose all sense of time and place.

I took lots of photos of the multitude of miniature arrangements we made, but even more beautiful was the wild mess we were left with when it was all said and done. There is something totally decadent about doing a photo shoot in your house. A sense of urgency. Wilted flowers find their way to the floor with stems and leaves and bits of fabric. When will the light change? What little thing would be perfect to sit next to the vase? Quick, heat up the iron to get out that distracting wrinkle in the fabric. Ahh! Where did I put my clippers in this flower squalor?

As the sun sets, the urgency reaches fever pitch. The shutter clicks continuously, hoping for one last shot and then poof! No more. You sit on the bed and offload, overwhelmed. Then you look up at scene of the crime and remember to snap one more because the mess is just about as pretty as a picture.