A
May 9th ice storm devastated our hydrangea bushes and stunted our
peonies: a local metaphor for the destruction wreaked by COVID-19. Cut flowers from the garden make our kitchen table an altar—a focus for eyes too used to screens—phones,
laptops, tablets, television, even digital refrigerator. Flowers in a vase are
company with my morning tea—beauty, comfort, promise. It had been eight weeks since I braved a visit
to the floral department at Acme.
I was not about to subject myself to the risk
and struggle—mask, gloves, vigilance—who touched the plastic sleeve on the
bouquet, was I far enough from the man who sneezed by the pickles, did I catch it?
—for flowers. Or to have a delivery—cost,
who touched the box, whatever.
So, since March, I
learned to have what I have. For the
first time, I brought in forsythia fronds that provided indoor sunshine for a
month. Then a dogwood branch. Fragrant daffodils and fuchsia bee balm make
me sneeze, so they didn’t have vase time. But white rhodie blossoms did, and
wild daisies from the lane.
The zinnia I grew from
seedlings were just starting to grow supportive stems, and the dahlias would
have to wait. And I panicked. As most of us have and do, I have squelched
my fears, worn the mask of “I’m okay,” affirmation-ed myself into what I
believed to be equanimity. But the morning
I tossed the last of four peonies, and swept their tiny seeds off the table, I
panicked. No flowers. And it wasn’t about not having flowers, but
the panic I had too long successfully denied.
And self-pity—such a little thing to want, flowers in the vase.
Carnations, daisies, roses—all these are lovelies, as is a comfortable life. And my garden will yield dish-sized dahlias and the zinnias that are the flamenco dancers of the garden. I snapped out of my self-pity and panic, as I dismantled towers of spent snap peas in the garden. Their lush, edible leaves were yellowed, their pods dried up—but
for a few brave vines. I thought my favorite bouquet of this season would be the last of the peas—that represents nourishment, equanimity, seeds for the future, and the holding on that tendrils are. But then I discovered galinsoga weed that had sheltered under the peas~Beauty in unexpected places. I harvested them for our table. Now I watch their tiny, perfect, complex blossoms turn to the sun. And get teary when I see their
heart-shaped leaves spread like arms; and when I learn that they are safe and edible, and that their
common name is “gallant soldier.”
