Walking down the street, a woman, low to the ground,
caught our eye.
She gestured for me to come over.
Without a word, she pointed to a petal, and another, then had me touch one as if to pass its energy on. I learned a lot in those brief moments.
As we walked on, Pa spoke of Bea. How much she loved flowers.
“Right now, her tulips would be coming up. All flowers were her friends, but secretly, tulips were her favorites.”
He then confessed that it was late in life that he grew fond of them. It was only after he’d closed his practice and Bea became sick, that he came to appreciate their beauty. He even learned to care for them after her passing.
Pa then asked if we might visit a garden.
“I saw one on the map, at the base of Kuju Mountain and an easy drive from here.”
Pa was right and we were there by noon.
Like Pa, I’m late in my appreciation for flowers. For so long, I told myself I’d spend the time
when I was older. Jen is a Master Gardener and wonderful with flowers. When I get back I'll ask her to teach me. I don't want to be like Pa.
It was quiet in the garden,
spacious as it was.
It seemed as if we had it to ourselves.
There were islands of delight,
beyond which were trellises
which gave way to mountains of white,
canopies of pink and green,
and blankets of blues.
There was a bridge,
below which a stream,
and above
baskets of flowers
lighting the way.
I thought of the woman on the street, and her rose, and of Mary Oliver, a kindred spirit:
When the roses speak, I pay attention . . .
“As long as we are able to be extravagant,
we will be hugely and damply extravagant.
Then we will drop foil by foil to the ground.
This is our unalterable task,
and we do it joyfully.”
And the roses went on,
“Listen . . . the heart-shackles are not,
as you think, death, illness, pain, unrequited hope;
not loneliness, but lassitude,
vainglory, fear, anxiety,
and selfishness.”
Their fragrance all the while rising from their blind bodies, making me spin with joy.
There is so much to contemplate in a rose, whose true love is beauty. Its momentary, ephemeral delicacy. Its soft spiral intended to capture the interest of some flying beast and whose thorns protect it from one who might pluck it.
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