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May 3, 2002.
Love, Botany & Death
One of my favorite folk musicians once suggested, sort of tongue-in-cheekily, that all of the songs she's ever written concern are about either love, botany or death.
I say that's nothing to be ashamed of.
I was telling Jessamyn about some flowers that Tom and I have put in over the past couple weeks in the front yard. Lemondrop lantana is a fine annual that performs very well in this part of the country, and I just love the name:
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The little clusters of flowers are like snowy puffballs.
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Blue lantana is also very fetching.
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This photo is rather impressive in its amateur-ishness, isn't it? Tom brought home some pink begonias with fuzzy leaves. I told Jessamyn that I think begonias look like they should be pinned to the Sunday hats of old ladies.
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Even after I finished watering all the flowers on Monday, Tom wasn't home from work yet. I sat in the green chair by the window and waited for him.
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My parents sent a glorious flower arrangement my way on Wednesday. The bouquet was wildly colorful and filled with my favorite flowers — tulips, gerber daisies, snapdragons, stock, roses.
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The arrangement was so large it was of almost violent proportions.
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Pink roses. Such a cliche, but such a lovely one.
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Stargazer lilies — dramatic and strong and handsome. This bloom is so perfect it could be made of porcelain. Do you suppose it would splinter into a million pieces if you stepped on it?
My parents and I have been at odds lately. Not only because of the Orthodox thing, but I think we've been in each other's hair a little too much lately. I have grown especially weary of my mother, and she of me. I have dealt unkindly with her and neglected to care for her at all.
When the flowers arrived in all their glory on Wednesday I found that I didn't want to look at them. I was reminded of my disgust with my mother and of the careless way I have treated her over the past few weeks. The flowers were a stunning reminder of my guilt.
Their scent filled my office and I couldn't stop thinking about them. Was it the scent of forgiveness or the scent of a funeral? Finally after an afternoon of guilt I recognized my error. I accepted the gift. And suddenly the bouquet became a blushing portrait of grace. My parents gave something lovely to me, who have been treating them in such an unlovely way.
I guess that is called redemption. I guess that is love and botany.
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(Funny how you can get so much from one flower arrangement.) |
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The truth is the kindest thing we can give folks in the end. — Harriet Beecher Stowe
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A great deal of Orthodox chanting. And more to come, honey.
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Somewhere on the west coast, where it's still dark, giant foamy waves are crashing against the boulders, and a woman stands on the cliff with the wind in her hair. — May 3, 2001
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