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South for Tulips

Because the crowds tend to gravitate north in search of their tulips, we went south to find ours. To Mossyrock. The place that people ask you to say twice to be sure they heard you right. “Mossyrock?” Then they shake their heads. “Never heard of it.”

Because…where’s Mossyrock?

Well. Despite Mossyrock being right off Washington’s Highway 12, you gotta be deliberate to get there, passing other tiny towns on Highway 7 that show up as specks on the map, places like Elbe and Morton.

And even then, if you’re not looking out the window, there’s a chance you could miss Mossyrock’s tulip field.

But we found it. Waiting for us, as it were, on Saturday’s overcast morning.

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Rows and rows of tulips.

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Pinks and yellows.

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Yellows and purples.

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Oranges.

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All of them waving in invitation for us to join them.

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And when it’s this pretty…

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This solitary…

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This exquisite…

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The soul’s desire is to be among the flowers. To walk the rows in admiration.

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To pause at the ones unmasked in the crowd…

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And think, “God, you are the coolest.”

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To bend and sniff tulip after tulip and claim with wide eyes that they smell delicious, a title reserved, perhaps, for roses or lilacs or lillies. But that hardly matters.

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Our thrill is being right here, in these rows, immersed in God’s painting, in his pinks and reds…

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His whites…

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And his confetti.

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It’s as if in the stillness of the flower bed God is whispering, “I love you.”

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Which is why our hearts already have plans to come back. To Mossyrock.

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That place where tulips grow on Highway 12 and where the soul has room to soar.

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