When I think of mimosas, I think of champagne. Just a touch of juice to make it sweet. Early morning light through tall glasses. Brunches that turn into afternoons. Friends. Family. The kind of celebration that doesn't need an occasion to justify itself. This is a mimosa, too - though a different kind. A bud bundle from one of two mimosa trees Andy and I planted at the top of our hill eight years ago. We named them Mimi and Momo, because of course we did, and we put them in ground that was honestly not what they would have chosen. Too sunny. Too rocky. Too dry. The kind of spot a more practical person would have ruled out. For a long time, they sulked. They grew, but barely. They stayed small and shy, putting their energy into roots we couldn't see, learning how to make a living out of stones and bright sun. It took years. And now look at her. Every little green cup is holding back something hot pink and electric, and the stamens are already poking out - gold-tipped, fizzy, like champagne bubbles that have escaped the flute and are mid-rise. She is half a second from spilling over. I find this so encouraging I can hardly stand it. Eight years of slow, quiet work in less-than-ideal conditions, and now Mimi is throwing a party. Momo is right behind her. The hilltop is about to be all sparkle and feather and that strange, soft pink fluff that mimosa blooms make. Whatever you've been quietly rooting through - whatever ground was rockier than you would have chosen - I hope your bloom is closer than you think. Be like Mimi, and POP.