One thing I do is stop and smell the flowers. Daffodils are my favorite because they're labor-efficient (plant 'em once!), they help me with my "wait-training" since they're bulbs, and they show up at just the right time, when I wonder if I can stand another day of winter's dreariness. They remind me of a baby's first smile, perfectly timed in that post-partum period.
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| Just like sunshine from the ground. |
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| One of my favorite poems, for one of my favorite flowers. I love how that works out sometimes. |
My grandmother, Angel Pie's namesake, loved daffodils, too. This is one of the few photographs I have of her, and that's ok. It's just the way I remember her: in her housecoat, her sunhat, in the garden, in the morning. If I have any hint of a green thumb, it's because of her. She let me plant the marigolds and pick the daffodils. (Pretty sure I goofed that a time or two.) She walked me around and around her yard, telling me the names of her plants: azaleas, camellias, hydrangeas, amaryllis, magnolias, oaks, cherry tomatoes on the deck. We waited for each in its season.
I love that this photo is so ethereal, somewhat from the sun, and somewhat from age and poor storage. I remember her saying that God gave her wide shoulders so she could carry a heavy load, and that she did. I hope I never have to face the pain she did. I lost my father, but she lost her son. And yet, she was so gentle. Loving, understanding, and accepting. "Hey, honey."
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| I'm pretty sure no daffodils ever grew here. |
That last photo? That was my first favorite garden of my own. So tiny, with pots everywhere. Frances (the cat) and I spent so much time "in" that garden: drinking chardonnay from a box and smoking cigarettes. I was convinced that flowers thrived on second-hand smoke. Those were the days.
I'm walking away from this post with focus on Wordsworth's observation: "I gazed --- and gazed --- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought...." Let's do that a little more, shall we?
