By Rabindranath Tagore
On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.
Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.
That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.
I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.
We all slept late on Sunday, did chores, had lunch, and went to Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, where the lotus blossoms and water lilies are in bloom (the Lotus and Water Lily Festival was on Saturday, but we figured it would be much more crowded then). Most of the frogs and turtles were hiding, but we saw lots of fish, egrets, herons, songbirds, and dragonflies, plus hundreds of huge pink lotus flowers and many water lilies in warm but not stifling weather:
We stopped at the food store and for Starbucks/Baskin Robbins and got home just as the Nationals finished another high-scoring game against the Reds. Adam went for a run before dinner, I took a shower and folded laundry, we has (veggie) barbecue for dinner with macaroni and potato salad, and we watched the start of the Red Sox game. But we turned it off since Adam had never seen The Shawshank Redemption so we could watch that instead. Now I'm sad about Martin Landau and wanting to watch Meteor!