To Love Flowers
To love flowers one must be patient. One must wait—observing the slow unfolding of creation. First the leaves emerge, and then all growth seems to stop. Then overnight weeks or months later a stem begins to ascend—the buds slowly appearing over more weeks or months. Only with more waiting—with more patient observation—do we see the opening of each perfect petal. The explosion of sudden color. The transformation of winter's dreary monotony into the bold pallet of spring.
I have been watching the leaves rise from winter's hard ground for a month now. Have squatted silently next to all types of leaves reaching upwards in search of sun. Have spent hours wandering the fields and footpaths, examining the buds as they form, wondering what beauty was held within. First the asphodel erupted in vibrant sprays of white and palest rose bouquets. And now the dappled light beneath the oak trees is bursting with the arrival of the pyramid orchids—their purple splendor bringing me to my knees so I can look them in the eye—their tender, violet eyes—and whisper encouraging words to them. Yes, you are growing so nicely. See how strong your stem is. How perfect your deep green leaves! Grow, little one. Grow!
Today I spent another day on my knees among the flowers. I was harvesting wildflower seeds, because I will soon be planting a pollinator garden. I pluck up borage, purple vetch and a yellow flower that may or may not be wild calendula. The purple vetch always catches my eye when out walking, and the luminous periwinkle petals of the borage are impossible to convey. How does something so small, so delicate, shine as if illuminated from within? Even on the greyest, foggiest days the star-shaped flowers gleam like lights along the murky paths. I picked seeds until my little bucket was full—my greedy fingers unable to stop until there was no room for even the most minuscule of seeds—and then spread them on parchment to dry. There are now two large sheets of parchment covered in these treasures, waiting for the threat of frost to pass. Waiting for the electric fencing (a deterrent to the wild boar that destroy every unprotected garden) to go up, for water systems to be put in place. Waiting for the eventual kiss of bees and butterflies. We are all waiting, you see. The patience required to love a flower never ceases.
The first time I planted a flower I was four years old, and my grandmother helped me dig the holes and place the pansies. It was early summer and she had watched me sit in front of her peonies for weeks as I watched the ants slowly reveal every luscious, pink face in the bush at the base of her front steps. She watched me as I watched the flowers every day—from bud to blossom to wilting. I think of that day spent digging with my grandmother—arranging the velvety flowers—every time I put seeds into soil. I remember the smell of the damp earth in front of her house, and the humid Nebraska summer air as we watered the vivid yellow and purple flowers, and how I felt as if I had just been given the most precious knowledge. The care of flowers. The power to grow.
This day spent planting pansies with my grandmother was not because she was an avid gardener, but because one of her great abilities was to see what someone needed—what would serve them—and offering whatever it was she saw there. Seeing my fascination with flowers, she decided to introduce me to gardening. She guided my clumsy hands into the earth—explaining how important it is to be gentle with the roots, how necessary water is. Like many beneficiaries of her magic, it was a moment that rippled across the pond of life, the circles expanding. Enrichment compounding enrichment. It was an experience that with time led to more experiences, more knowledge and skill and, in its own way, to a sort of wisdom. Looking back, I have only just now realized that that day was done purely for me. She was laissez faire when it came to yard work. She spent that day with me as a gift—she left me with a memory that glows even brighter now in the understanding that she singled me out that summer morning, giving me not only the joy of learning how to plant flowers, but her attention and her time which is, after all—love.
I have had flowers everywhere I have lived. If I am in a city—in a flat with no balcony or outdoor space—there will be orchids or begonias. Something content to live in a pot by the window—and if I have a patio or some small patch of earth then the sky's the limit. Potted gardens have become a specialty, and I have turned many concrete slabs into lush spaces. Nasturtiums, marigolds, coral colored double blossom begonias, cymbidiums and calla lilies, brugmansia and shockingly bright purple morning glories that I wrapped around porch beams, turning it into a flower-walled gazebo. Hollyhocks. Mexican sunflowers and cosmos were a living privacy wall in my last front-yard, and below them borage, bachelor's buttons and lupines. On days when my soul is in need of nourishment, I wander through the villages, drinking in the flowers in the yards of my neighbors. There are so many that every village almost seems to be its own botanical garden—a haphazard tangle of life—a simple testament to the pleasure of watching things grow. A testament to the patience of flower lovers. Here, too, the brugmansia, calla lilies, nasturtiums and cymbidiums abound. The Portuguese are generous with what they have, and seed swapping is common—flower seeds, vegetables, fruits and legumes. I have already planted the broad beans given by a neighbor, and soon the cosmos, marigolds, clary sage and bright purple borage from another will be sewn. Even now the crocuses given by a friend drink the morning dew—slowly growing towards autumn when they will dawn lavender caps and stick out their saffron tongues. In the orchards the almond and apple trees are in bloom—the air colored in wisps of fruit blossom. By April the olive trees will be in flower, followed quickly by poppies and the grape vines.
Like watching the sunrise, what is beautiful never becomes ordinary. Not for me, at least. What is stunning and awe inspiring and mysterious is, for me, every time stunning and mystifying. I know the world turns on its axis and the sun will come up over the mountains to the east—and every morning it is sacred. The light has returned. The plants will grow another day. There will be another orchid or patch of purple vetch or heather coloring the landscape. Every day the sun rises and I will be down on my knees, praising another simple miracle. Worshiping at the altar of creation.