“Flowers don’t tell, they show. That’s the way good books should be too.”–Stephanie Skeem.
I drink cup after cup of Folgers coffee while jotting down these little observations about life. It’s usually early morning when my disposition is at its best. Environment matters, as eyes are often my first source of inspiration. When they sweep the room, it’s important that I have something intriguing to gaze upon. Like Georgia O’Keeffe notes, I discovered that a flower can activate my mind better than anything else – things I have no words for.
Sitting with my own thoughts for any extended period can be bewildering, as you can imagine. A bouquet of flowers is like having a friend in the room, casting their fragrance and radiance all over me.
Head down, with intense focus, I try to emulate Mary Oliver’s passion, but eventually I find myself struggling to find the right words. The poor little stems are slowly bending under the weight of their beauty, and the coffee is cold. This is when I start to wonder whether I love writing or the ritual of creating beautiful vases overflowing with radiant flowers and delicate weeds.
What came first?
This reminds me of something my granddaughter asked me the other day, “Grammie, if Easter is about Jesus’ death, why do we run around finding eggs?”
I say, “Well, Easter is really about Jesus’ resurrection. Remember, he died and came back to life? The eggs represent new life.”
“Then what’s up with the Easter bunny?”
I am dying, she’s killing it, I say, “Bunnies represent spring, abundance, and new life because they are so fertile. I suppose they soften the Easter story, make it more whimsical, and joyful.”
“So, this poor guy died like a thousand years ago so we get to enjoy easter baskets, chocolate bunnies, and plastic eggs.”
“Maybe all these symbols are not just asking us to remember the resurrection, they’re asking us to go out and look for it.”
“Kids are much better at finding things.”
So true.
May Sarton said nothing comes to birth without darkness. I’m starting to think nothing fully flowers without light, and the thing is, writing demands both, as we strain to give birth to meaningful stories. I remind myself that it’s not all sunshine and roses; I have to spend time in the shadows, in the dark, before the corolla unfolds. Those are the delicate petals that protect the entire process.
We arrived at the lake in the early morning, after an unusual amount of spring showers; it was as if everything that could grow or bloom was on steroids. We had to cut a path to the front door.
I’m not kidding.
When I made it to the back patio overlooking the lake, I almost fainted. My mouth gaping open in a way that was not particularly attractive, while goosebumps traveled mercilessly up my bare arms, and I stood there staring shamelessly at these purple flowers draping themselves over the rustic wine barrel as if engaged in a lover’s embrace.
Oh, how I love the spring.
As the sunlight holds the chill at bay, a soft breeze caresses my skin, and it feels so intimate I want to moan. Okay, go easy, these flowers are flirting shamelessly with me.
I glance over at the geraniums and ivy, which instantly remind me of my mother. I can see her as if she were sitting here today, my large gardening gloves enveloping her small hands, as she perches on one of the patio chairs, and proceeds to deadhead all the dried geraniums in the morning light. This was my mom, quietly restoring things, weeding through the refuse, bringing forth new life.
I miss her.
To my right, the shrubs and fruitless mulberry trees are covered in these delicate stems that now carpet the patio. Immediately, my mind starts visualizing bouquets, and I race back into the house to retrieve my clippers.
After placing the arrangements around my workspace with the precision of a brain surgeon, I light a candle, and that is how I warm up my brain.
I was reading about plants, flowers, and yes, the grass recently, in a new book about Georgia O’Keeffe. She claims that although we observe the same surroundings, we do not see the same thing. For example, Larry is not a fan of candles; he believes they are the worst igniter of house fires ever invented, but, in his defense, he pays the fire insurance, so I graciously ignore his glares.
Georgia says, “Nobody sees a flower – really – it is so small it takes time – we haven’t time – and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.” Isn’t she fabulous? It’s the same with writing. It takes me a lot of time to weed through all the frivolous words to uncover the story I want to tell.
Then I read something that stopped me in my tracks and is still giving me pause. It’s ridiculously obvious, but I’ll probably still be noodling on it in my 80s. Life is lived forward, but we can only understand it backward. I remember when my mother died. Oh, I felt immediate anguish, but I did not feel the full emotion of losing a parent or understand the full impact of this loss until much later, when I had time to process her death.
Now I realize my love for flowers and compelling stories came from my mother, and possibly from my great-grandmother’s going back for generations.
Our spring traditions are the same. The fragrant flowers, gentle showers, warm breezes, chocolate bunnies, and colorful eggs are only part of the story. It has to include the death of an innocent man, who was laid to rest in a dark tomb, but that’s didn’t stop the movement he put into place, it elevated it.
The lake does this to me. It forces reminiscing and rumination. A potent combo. O’Keeffe says, “If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for a moment.”
While Larry was hacking away at the overgrown courtyard, I was hacking on my computer, glancing up every now and then to admire my bouquets. I have always believed that we can sense love. Like the way we know when someone takes a shine to us, enjoys our humor, or alternatively, is repelled by my presence. It’s intuitive. We can feel the emotions of the people around us, or maybe it’s simply how our hearts communicate.
Plants communicate in a similar fashion, because when I’m thinking about watering one of them, I know they know; their leaves tilt ever so slightly in my direction, as if drawing me towards them.
Maybe it is the same with death.
If I were being honest, I would admit that all other things are just things we need to survive (water, food, shelter), but a tulip, rose, sunflower, lily, chrysanthemum, lavender, orchid, or peony are extravagances. The fragrances, colors, and forms don’t just sustain us; they embellish us.
I get up and open the door, wondering if my bouquets are fragrant enough to entice a butterfly. What I’m really wondering is if my words will be enough to entice my reader. Is the message embellished with just the right words that soften and clarify, not overwhelm and mire?
Gazing back at my floral arrangements, I’m starting to think of those little vases as coffins. A flower is such a contradiction. She starts out as a tiny bud that appears to bloom overnight. She’s fragrant, delicate, appealing, but by the time she blooms, she is at the end of life. Isn’t that always the way?
When I cut those bouquets, I am not preserving beauty, I’m interrupting it, for my own selfish reasons. I think it’s the impermanence that draws me.
And that’s the final lesson they teach me. Detachment. Detachment from the words I write, from the thoughts that inspire, from the reaction of the reader, once I bundle my words and send them off to you. The truth is all things bud, bloom, wither, and die, and so shall I. And yet, every spring we are reminded by the tulips, chocolate bunnies, and plastic eggs that it is from the cool, dark earth that we will rise.
“I must have the flowers, always and always.” Claude Monet
This goes perfectly with my book – Grow Damn It! It gathers, shares, opens, and inspires new growth. Slip it into those spring baskets with a pair of gardening gloves and poppy seeds. Exquisit.
Living in the Gap 