I was a teenager having surgery in Minneapolis. It was not yet spring, but for my mother. She was dressed in yellow, head to toe. From my wheelchair, I could see her slacks, not break at the knee, but simply curve like a note in a Harry Belafonte song. The elevator door opened and the doctor smiled at her — said she looked as “beautiful as a jonquil.” I didn’t even know what that meant, but it was the most elegant compliment I had ever heard. Back at my room, no iPad or telephone, certainly no dictionary, we could only imagine how beautiful that flower looked.
It has been decades, and I’m still lifted by yellow. I’m still lifted that my mother dressed to lift, herself and me. I’m still lifted by jonquils standing tall in a breeze that they shouldn’t survive, as my mother bent, but never broke.
As the elevator door opened to 2026, I gave the woman in my sketchbook a yellow sweater. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Lift each other.
My mother was struggling with the row of marigolds she had planted to line our driveway on Van Dyke Road. Water more? Water less? She wasn’t sure. She stood puzzled, garden hose in hand. I stood beside her, confident with the answer, my banana seat bike balanced between my legs.
“You just have to pray more,” I said.
“What?”
“Like Mrs. Musik,” I replied.
Mrs. Musik had the most coveted lawn and garden on Van Dyke Road. The grass emerald green. Each blade the same height. Row after row of beautiful flowers. Every color. One brighter than the next. All at attention. Pushing toward the sky. We weren’t allowed on it. The free-for-all of running across lawns and driveways and through screen doors didn’t apply here. But this prohibition didn’t make it any less beautiful. I often pushed the break pedal of my bike, slowing down, sometimes even stopping, just to watch her, bent over, kneeling in front of the flower bed, hands reaching out, covered in dirt.
“What makes you think she is praying?” My mother asked.
“Because I’ve seen her,” I said and described her on bent knee.
“I think she’s weeding.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, she’s taking out the weeds. Getting through all the bad stuff, so the good things can grow.”
Neither of us quite sure of which word we were describing, I guess I still hold it as my definition. Releasing the bad thoughts, making room for the good things to grow. I garden daily through the negativity of my heart and brain, making room for the bloom. You can call it whatever you like, I suppose, but I know when my hands are dirty and my heart is clean, something good will come of it. Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.
I have to admit, (physically and metaphorically) I’m shooting most of my photos in the wind. As I walk along the gravel path, the wildflowers seem to pop up, blooming as proof that it can be done, even in the strongest of winds that race directions through the hills. Some barely petaled, they still have the audacity of hopeful beauty, and I think, if I could just catch them mid sway, it would be like capturing the wind…and if I did, in fact, capture that wind, it would find its way into my heart, spreading limb to limb, and even against all forces of the natural and unnatural, I too, would dance.
So even as the sun blinds the screen of my phone, I point and shoot, not knowing until much later what will appear. Looking at yesterday’s photos from the comfort of home, I have to swivel in my chair. I smile at the blurred backgrounds — the forgotten hardships — and see the dancing petals. So fragile. So strong. So beautiful. And I smile, knowing today, it just might be me, who flowers in all of this wild. Me, barely petaled, who dances in the wind.
It’s always a surprise, even though they come up in the same place, at the same time each year — the wooded slope at the edge of our property. Home to the wild asparagus in spring and the autumn jonquils. It’s an explosion of yellow, but you have to want to see it. You have to look for it. You have to brave the slope. Such gentle and confident beauty to grow in a place where few bother to search.
I saw them yesterday. I was nearly two hours into mowing the lawn. On the last stretch. Tired. Losing interest in the nature of things. Edging slowly toward the slope, behind the greenhouse, I saw them. Dancing in the sea of yellow that they made for themselves. How delightful, I thought, (and always think), that they bloom just behind the house of glass where it would be so easy.
Placing them on the table, I could hear Dr. F. Dixon Conlin tell my mother, who was standing by my hospital bed dressed all in yellow’s joy, “Wow, you look just like a jonquil.” It was my first time hearing the flower’s name, but not the first time I saw my mother looking like one. Because she always brought the joy, from head to toe, even in the most unlikely of places. She was by my side, surgery after surgery, never once looking like what her insides must have felt.
Maybe this is what keeps me searching out the unimaginable. Keeps me daring the slope. There is joy to be found. Hidden seas of yellow just waiting. My mother taught me that. Her lesson shines on our kitchen table.
Through the month of July, I thought the row of flowers that lined our driveway were a group of Marys that all shared the last name Gold. Brightly dressed in oranges, reds, and yellows, these Marys sweetened our driveway like the Halloween candy I had laid out in rows several months before.
These Marys seemed so hearty. So forgiving. Not like Mrs. Muzik’s flowers a few houses down, that, while beautiful, didn’t want to be touched. I ran the Marys daily. Racing up the row in the driveway, then back the row in our lawn. If I bent over with one arm reaching low, I could run my hands through all the colors, greeting every Mary, my fingertips as new as each petal. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I felt it in my heart, this promise to be delicate, to be strong.
While she was out watering her lawn bouquet one evening, I told Mrs. Muzik about our Marys. She looked confused at first, then shook her head, “They’re marigolds,” she said. Isn’t that what I said, only faster? I know I said, each one is named Mary Gold. “No,” she said, and said it again — “marigolds.” I walked back up the gravel hill to our house. My mom was standing by the garage door, where our flowers began. “She’s trying to kill my Marys,” I said, bottom lip out. “Who did? What?” “Mrs. Muzik, she says they aren’t Marys at all, they are marigolds.” My mom smiled. “But ours are Marys, right?” “Yes,” she said, “Of course they are.” She locked my hand in hers and we ran down the row.
We were sitting at our local seafood restaurant, Touinou. The outdoor deck was lined in oranges, yellows and reds. A butterfly floated above them. I knew it was my mother. You can’t tell me differently. I was raised never to allow anyone to kill my Marys. We sat together, delicate and strong, in the glow of a French summer sun.
“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. “
Most of the time, we leave the wild flowers in our yard. They seem to thrive outside. On the occasion that I bring one or two inside, I’ve noticed something special about them. Just as if they were outside, when the lights go out and it gets dark, they close up for the evening. When I open up the shutters, letting in the morning light, they open themselves up again.
At the moment, we have a bouquet of florist lilies received as a gift in our salon, and a couple of wild lilies from the garden. True to form, the wild lilies open and close, and the florist lilies stay open. All are gorgeous.
I have been guilty throughout the years of trying to be an indoor lily. Thinking I could only be loved if I was like the others. Nature has a way of sorting things out, and I have learned. I’m still learning. There is so much beauty in being yourself. I am not perfect. I may not even always be chosen for the center bouquet, but in my wild and glorious way, I have a place at the table. I am beautiful and I am loved. Please know this. Please learn this, again and again if you have to. The wild lilies know. And as they open and close, it feels like a secret wink in my direction. A wink, to say, “You belong beauty, just stay a little wild.”
I wrote a poem – my grandparent’s story – it begins:
She was a beauty like he’d never seen, Elsie turned his head with a smile, When Rueben looked back He knew for sure That she’d be in his heart for a while.
“I’m such a stubborn man, Elsie, I’m stubborn as a mule.” She said, “I love you just the same.” He said, “Then I hear you love a fool.”
And he fell for her as only fools can. The story of Rueben and Elsie began.
Yesterday I walked into our yard — maybe not in the best of moods. I saw a sea of dandelions. “Stupid dandel -“ I couldn’t finish. It was another yellow that took my breath away. A yellow tulip. My favorite. It had popped up in the middle of our yard. Almost daring me to notice it amid the other yellow. And I did. We normally get a row or two of orangeish-red tulips in a different part of our garden, but here it was, yellow, as if the universe knew I loved a yellow tulip, knew I needed one. (Even believers sometimes like to see it first hand). Now, some might say, “Oh, that’s rubbish to believe such a thing – to believe it grew for you.” (Rubbish — apparently the nay-sayers in my head are from a 1960’s play in England). But it’s not rubbish – not to me. It’s my favorite flower. My favorite tulip. And it arrived just when I needed it. And oh, how I believe in the magic of it all. So, no, it’s not rubbish. And yes, I am proud to be as gloriously foolish as my grandfather, and I fell for her, this tulip, as only fools can… this is the magic of how my day began.
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.
The first time we went to Lafayette, a few years ago, we didn’t really like the city. To be fair, we didn’t really see it. We lost a tire (we found it, as it rolled past our moving rental car) and spent the afternoon at the gas station. By the time it was finished, we asked the station attendant, where was the city center. He seemed baffled and said, “I think we’re in it.” Banking this as truth, we drove on.
Just before arriving in Lafayette this year, I asked Dominique, “Have we been here before?” We relived the runaway tire story and laughed. We both decided, “Not really.” In the daylight this time, we could see all the signage urging us to try the boudin balls. We love trying local food. Winding our way through the barriers set up for the Mardis Gras parade, we stumbled upon a small restaurant that said, “still open.” We ordered the pride of Lafayette – the boudin – not really in a ball, but more of a sausage – and it was delicious. We started to really see Lafayette. We went to an antique shop. They had real antiques, not Chinese remakes. We browsed slowly, thoughtfully, wishing we had more room in our suitcases. We visited with the owner. He was delighted we were visiting from France. We praised his store. Offered our apologies for not being able to buy anything because of the travel. He went into the back room. Came back with little packets. “I want you to have these.” They were flower seeds. Almost weightless, but for the meaning. “Plant them when you get back, then you will have a part of us there.”
Lafayette in the light of day. In the light of the people. Beautiful. We really saw it.
It is springtime now in the south of France. Soon we will plant these flower seeds, and get a second look (or third) at Lafayette. And I suppose that is what spring is all about – giving us a second look, another chance. Another chance to see the beauty that this world holds. The weight of this! The importance! I don’t want to miss a thing!
