The straw from my wide brimmed hat itches my head, but is necessary to protect me from ticks and the sun. Shears in one hand and stainless steel vase in another, Daisy and I trudge up the driveway to the wildflower garden. Three years in the making, this spring's torrential rains left an abundance of black eyed susans, blanket flowers, purple things I don't know what to call...a daily reminder that without rain our flowers cannot bloom. A fitting metaphor these days as I prepare to release my children to the world and find tears often close to the surface. What lovely new things will birth from these tears?I step carefully into the garden...Monday's harvest yielded red ants feasting on my feet and ankles. Also, if I am not mindful of where I step, I may trample a precious bloom.
Snip the first black eyed susan surrenders her freedom outdoors to continue in a place of honor on our table. Will she miss the outdoors or revel in the daily attention and compliments?
Recently, Malcolm and I have been thinking about moving into Birmingham and selling this beautiful land. Simplicity is calling; yet leaving would be hard. This morning I placed Malcolm's heart-felt words in a silver frame...a prayer really, that we move toward a life of radical simplicity, one that allows more time for relationships...and doing things we love to do.
What flowers would be best to place in the thin, glass vase I'll place next to the framed prayer? Lingering on the multitude of choices I find the sweetest yellow flower...tiny, fragile stem, vibrant yellow...oh, and another just like it. An unusual variety of black eyed susan catches my eye-it has streaks of dark brown in the flower. Finally, a daisy with a few unfurled petals completes the arrangement for my beloved. Tender, vulnerable, unique, and not-yet-formed, these blooms embody the dream we are still dreaming.
Walking back down the drive with arms full I stop at the edge of the driveway where the oak leaf hydrangeas hide under a canopy of hardwoods. Setting my load down on the gravel I traipse into the wooded area...it is such a shame these beauties are hidden from the world. Remembering the first time I was introduced to oak leaf hydrangeas 10 years ago by a man whose passion for plants and trees opened my heart to a world before unseen, I lean in as far as I can without falling and choose three white blooms in their prime. You will be placed on the counter in honor of Jonathon who loved planting some of your cousins in a home far away in North Carolina. And then my mind wanders...do the current owners love those hydrangeas? the red buds, hostas, Christmas ferns, and fringe tree that we planted?
Renewed, I place the pickings on the counter and gingerly pull away unnecessary leaves, fuss at uncooperative stems...immersed in the pleasure of the gentle task at hand.
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