Peas, blossoms, and the present moment

I'm struck by the magic of flowers in the garden.  I can look out into the main garden, and see all the work that needs doing, the weeds that need pulling, the areas still eagerly awaiting their plants...and then I'm just struck by the blossoms.  I realize that I don't really know how it works, biologically--I know that blossoms indicate where a plant will develop fruit, and on peas, at least, the remnants of blossoms are often still attached to the shell.  So somehow, through hey-presto-biology, flowers turn into fruit.  

It seems to happen while we're sleeping, though.  One day, the vines will be vigorous, lush, and full of flowers.  And then the next, they've pulled back a little, and there's a plethora of peapods in their place.  

I've become so aware of transformation this last year, as I've radically reordered my daily life, as I've lived here through the seasons, as I've become immersed in the journey of the liturgical year.  It seems true, that saying, that "change is the only constant."

I think if I really was at peace with constant change, though, I wouldn't try to hold on so hard to things, I wouldn't grieve at the loss that accompanies change.  Perhaps, if I was truly present in the moment, I would be over-awed by the beauty and the wonder of change, rather than thinking back with longing or regret, or thinking ahead with anticipation or fear.  If I was really present to the moment, I would marvel in the beauty of the blossom, or I would happily chomp the pea, or I would gratefully place the empty pod down on the ground, as mulch for the soil.  Instead, too often, I want the pea and the blossom all at once.  Maybe really being at peace with change means reveling in the fullness of each moment, as well as accepting its limits.  In my glimpses of zen-ness, I can be content, and I can say, with total honesty and appreciation, "It is what it is."  But grasping after, longing after that awareness doesn't actually bring it any closer.  The only thing that does is turning on all my senses, being aware of all that surrounds me, perceiving the reality of interconnectedness, and paying attention only to the moment.  Planting the seed, admiring the blossom, eating the pea, building the soil.  Each a wonder, if fully apprehended.