After a very confusing day in the library at Washington Elementary, I went home for some much needed clarification from my mother. Hovering between fiction and non-fiction, I asked her if Grandma Dynda, (who lived two lots down on Van Dyke Road) was real. “She’s a real person, of course, but not your real grandma.” So is she fiction or non-fiction? Eyebrows up, and mouth partly open, the words didn’t come, so she just smiled at me. I think we both know we would spent much of our lives hovering in this magical place.
My brain would come to understand most of the difference, but it’s my heart that’s still bouncing around the in-between.
When we first got our cherry tree, and I was searching for a name, (because that’s what I do, name our trees and plants), something worthy and pure and sweet, I hopped the whitewash fence of Mark Twain and found Little Becky Thatcher. In bloom now in the spring of our front yard, she’s as real to me as any written word. As real as any love given two lots down.
It will be a race between us and the magpies when the cherries come. And I like not knowing. Being mid-page. Hovering daily in the smile of this magical place.
In the “Age of Innocence,” (if there were ever a time), they used to say, “I didn’t think they’d try it on,” meaning, I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do it. Some may have said that about my mother, but not me.
I’m not sure she ever really knew how brave she was. I know she wanted to be. I guess I knew first, because my grandfather told me. Standing in the kitchen, opposite the sink – grandma in elbow deep – in front of the window that framed the stripped and hanging cow from the tree, he told me I could turn in, or turn out. That I could armored like my Aunt Kay, or be open like my mother. He didn’t mark either as good or bad, both would be difficult, it was just a choice. My mother returned from the other room. Broken, she had the guts to still be ruffled in white. I had already made my choice. To be wounded, but still believe in love, I would ever be “trying it on.”
It was years later, I relayed his message to her. She hadn’t known that he saw her. It wasn’t the way. I suppose it was thought, “Well, it goes without saying…” but mostly I think that means it simply goes unsaid. I can’t let it be one of those times. Ever ruffled in ruffles, I come to the page, to the canvas, to you, wide open, daily. And on those days when you think you don’t have the strength, the courage, the will, you will think of these words, these images, see my mother’s face and heart, and you will find yourself “trying it on.”
I pillowed my ears between two couch cushions as the thunder cracked and the lightning flashed through my grandma’s living room. “Would the cows be ok?” I asked her. “Safe in the barn,” she said.
“And the car?” “In the garage.”
“And grandpa?” “Smoking his pipe in the basement.”
She patiently had an answer for each one on my list. But surely not the flowers, I thought. They couldn’t possibly be ok. I peaked my head through the front entry door. They were closed and slightly bent as the storm raged around them. “Are they dead?” I asked. “No, just waiting. You’ll see in the morning.”
I slept on the sofa that night. Grandpa snored in the next room. Grandma rolled. I waited under covers.
The first light cracked through the door we never used, giving sound to Grandma in the kitchen. I raced through to the side door. Tiptoed lightly, tickling the wet grass and stood in front of the sun-lit front stairs flanked by flowers. Straight, strong and wide open! I could not only see them, but hear them!
I marked my return to the kitchen with prints of little wet toes. “They’re good, aren’t they?” “Yes!” I agreed.
Oh, the storms I can create in the middle of the night, even still. I go through my lists and cover myself back to sleep. All part of the growth inside. Knowing the storm will end, light will come, and this bloom of voice and thunder, was about to be heard.
“In April, millions of tiny flowers spread over the blackjack hills and vast prairies in the Osage territory of Oklahoma… In May, when coyotes howl beneath an unnervingly large moon, taller plants, such as spiderworts and black-eyed Susans, begin to creep over the tinier blooms… The necks of the smaller flowers break and their petals flutter away, and before long they are buried underground. This is why the Osage… refer to May as the time of the flower-killing moon.” David Grann
We didn’t study the Osage, or perhaps I would have thought it was May, the “cruelest” of months. No, at Central Junior High, Mr. Rolfsrud had us studying T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, touting “April” as the cruellest month.” Maybe we were too young to understand either one — the cruelty of April or May. We, barely into living our collective Februarys, still believed in all things good. All things possible.
I’m reading Killers of the Flower Moon now. I’m a bit embarrassed to come to it this late, but I am here, now, learning. Maybe that’s all any of us can do. I am but a tiny bloom, for sure. And while some may find that terrifying, I see it as a yearly victory. Resilience. There are parts of me that have been trampled by the largest of Susans, but I’m still here. And each time, there comes a decision, bloom again or stay buried. I choose bloom. May we all choose bloom.
As we keep springing forward, maybe it becomes easier to see. (I hope. I pray.) Empathy reveals our constant struggles and beauty. We’re only asked to keep growing. To not be trampled by the understanding, but set free.
The sun begins to warm our spring day. The cool of early morning offers my heart just a hint of February, and I still believe.
“And each time, there comes a decision, bloom again or stay buried. I choose bloom. May we all choose bloom. “
They stand ready in the garden at the bottom of the hill, these two mannequins clothed in silk dresses. Had she been a gardener, my mother would have done the same. No scarecrows for her. And maybe she did have a hand in it. They were never there before. I have walked past this garden for years. It would be easy to explain away the magic. New tenants perhaps, but I prefer my own explanation — both my mother and mother-in-law passed within a year’s time — now, together, they are dressed to the nines in the ease and rest of the bottom of the hill.
You can say it’s foolish to believe such things, but don’t tell my legs. Each day when I see them, the ease and strength that springs me back up that hill can’t be denied. And that’s what I choose to believe in. Maybe that’s what we all choose to believe in — whatever gets us back up the hill.
I have a tiny mannequin behind my desk. I bought it years ago and gave it to my mom as a symbol of the strength she gave to me. Whatever she was going through, she got up, got dressed (beautifully) and faced the day. Who am I not to do the same? Sure I stumble. I get wet, and muddy, and tired, and scraped in life’s bloom, but then I see the signs, I see them, and I am welcomed to the garden.
He was a few years younger than us. Not that many if you counted them now, but in high school a couple of years made a big difference. And it was those few years that made us call him Pauly, not Paul. Just one little letter, a y, to differentiate.
He was my best friend’s brother. I had already learned that bad things could happen. Not just little things like a poor grade or a sack lunch you didn’t like, but gut-wrenching things, life altering things. But they hadn’t yet. So it was not only the news that shook them, but the surprise of it all.
And Hemingway had warned us in our English prep class. Told us how we expected to be sad in the fall, but not in summer. I could hear the change in her voice. How this brilliant sun-filled day had broken them, along with Pauly’s spine. He chose to dive and not fall off the shallow dock. And with that one impulse changed the course of everything. Changed the “y” to “why?”…and just like that Pauly became Paul.
We don’t always get to be ready before we’re asked to grow. Rarely, I suppose. But we will be asked. All. And we won’t be given the answers to the questions. But we will be given the chance. The spring.
I saw the blooming trees on my walk yesterday. And I thought of him. How far he had come from the endless days at the hospital. And I smiled because the why had returned to a y, and he was Pauly again. I touched the pink surprise of the bloom, and kept walking.
There is a pink blossomed tree in our front yard. Nestled against the greens, it really shines. But would it? Without this sea of green? These glorious supporting characters in this summer spectacular! And this is to take nothing away from them — each one, on any other given day when the pink is not in bloom, could play the leading role. Because they are not just green — these emerald, lime and apple greens, these olive, jade, even silver greens! All beautiful! And maybe most importantly, all secure in their own worth. Secure enough to let the pink tree have it’s moment — to let the pink tree shine!
I’m not sure I would be able to notice this without the example my mother set for me. She, no wall flower, always wanted to present herself in the very best manner. She, who would stand in line for the Clinique promotion, memorize the best mirrors at Daytons, thumb through the catalogs, iron and pop her white collars — this beauty, was never, is never afraid to let me shine.
What a gift! To be celebrated for all your pinkness! I suppose the only way to give thanks is to pass it on. To see, to allow, to find joy in the glorious colors of all. This, my friends, is a day to shine.
“You do the impossible every day. You warm people with your own brilliant light, and make them believe it is they who really shine.” jodi hills
There is something to the spring cleaning. The refresh. And it’s probably no surprise that the new Home Edit series was just released on Netflix. I will admit that I am excited by their organization. Inspired to do my own. This, mixed with trees in bloom, the flowers singing along with the birds, I begin.
I am not one who believes I have to buy more things to get my old things in order. No judgements, just me. I’ve always liked shopping my own dwelling. And I do. Frequently. I started with a good clean of the bathroom. Changed out the painting. Changed the postcard. Took the candle that I was gifted for Christmas out of its red container (red wouldn’t do) – put that candle into an appropriate container (a previously used up candle), and lit it, of course. And I picked a small flowering stem from our garden. As we say here, quite loosely I might add, Voila!
There is something quite satisfying about a spring refresh, and I slept well. The next morning, not quite awake, I turned on the bathroom light, and my heart smiled to the tips of my mouth. That, my friends, is refreshing.
I’ve started tackling my office. And it occurred to me, maybe I could do this within, within myself. An edit. Let go of the old feelings I’m not using anymore, the ones just cluttering up space, gathering dust…wouldn’t that be something! And even if it lasted for a day, a season, and I did it again, wouldn’t that, just like the spring birds, give my heart something to sing about! I think so! My inner voices must deserve as much attention as the shelf in my office. And so I begin. The load a little lighter, a little cleaner, in my house, in my heart. I smile, and feel like blooming.
When I lived in Minneapolis, I could buy a group of lilies for just three dollars at the Byerly’s store next to my apartment. It would produce four to five giant, beautiful white flowers, that often lasted three weeks. This was a luxury I could afford.
I would buy a stem that was mostly unopened. Each morning I would check to see how she had bloomed. “Good morning, Lily!” I always wanted to catch her, in mid bloom – see how she opened, but I never did. I would be in the kitchen, or bathroom, and come back, and she would be new. Lovely.
I suppose that’s the way it is with most of us. We don’t often get to see what makes others change, grow, but it’s happening. All the time. We are all going through something — struggles, lessons, living. All of us, just trying to bloom. And if we’re lucky, truly lucky, the beautiful few that we can call our friends, will show us how they got here — how they came to bloom. A luxury we could all afford.
I was born in the springtime, every year. I can’t say that I’ve ever been much for New Year’s Eve. Sure, I’ll enjoy a glass of champagne and kiss in the beginning of the coming year, but for me, it doesn’t hold the magic of spring.
When the birds start to sing a little louder, the light lasts a little longer, the trees open up their branches in bloom, this, this for me, is intoxicating.
Our apricot and plum trees are covered in flowers. It is pure art. Coy as the Mona Lisa smile, the bloom says, well, I promised, and here I am. They just can’t stop smiling, and neither can I. I want to clean fresh, create new, enjoy every moment of this life. I am born again, for the first time and I too want to bloom.
The air smells not just clean, but sweet, and I feel lighter. Each step has just a bit of a bounce and I know none of it is to be wasted. I want, I need, to take that bounce and toss it against the page, the canvas, the hearts around me and follow it wherever it leads. I, we, get another fresh start. What a gift! I skip to the song of the birds, and know that I am new.
