Flowers on Sunday Lightly and Darkly

Tonight there was almost an extra half hour for the flowers to take their turn in the window, humming around each other in their cordial melody.  It’s surprising, isn’t it? How quickly we respond to that extra light at the end of the day, as January begins to wring just a little more sun from the clock – even when she hides it behind milky grey clouds.  This brightening can’t help but include us in its subtly spreading increase.  Despite everything, we remain creatures of the natural world, and it works its rhythms in us on a scale so magnified, we barely even notice.

My friend reminded me of the reasons this isn’t about flower arranging.  It’s about finding something beautiful, something to make me feel that I’ve shown (shone?) some of the love in my heart.  Which I do want to share, and hope you will see what I see, too.

Of course, the colors and the shapes are what come into the light.  But they gather their aliveness in the velvet dark, along with so many tender things that emerge from that other language of forming and waiting.


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Flowers on Sunday

Sunday night is here, and here I am writing you.  Which you I’m writing to changes with the inner weather, but I always hope you’ll see yourself in the edges of the words – and of course, the things I don’t say.

The flowers are my way of making this some place I want to be.  In the picture, it’s my little room, but it’s not. The window is looking in and inwards.  I’m traveling somewhere as real and made up as any wish fulfillment dream – a mash-up of actual light and distant hope.  No one else knows the difference if I take this journey or not.  Not even you.

One of the staff at Trader Joe told me I’d done a good job with the flowers I chose.  That made me feel so good, and at the same time very self-conscious.  I’m hard to miss, ogling the alstroemeria in my leather coat and polka dot mask and indescribable hair.  Maybe it was just something to say because we kept crossing paths – first by the flowers, then by the butter, then by the tea and coffee he was re-stocking.  Such is my life – first flowers, then butter, then tea and/or coffee.

There are so many blunders that I have run out of time to remedy.  Things that can’t be fixed with flowers.  But every week, I keep trying.

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Flowers on Sunday – Where Were We?

A cabbage sort of rose, blood red ranunculus, alstroemeria and scabiosa, with remnants of last week’s larkspur.

If I don’t put it into words tonight, can you take a rain check?  For one thing, I need a little more time for everything to sink in.  No.  That’s not true.  I don’t have the energy to let it all sink in – which is what will happen if I start writing.

Before Wednesday, my imagination was starting – just starting – to entertain the afterwards.  I indulged myself in future arms and kisses, and the smell of your cheek – reciting a familiar spell I used to cast on myself for other reasons.   I fooled myself into a little mirage of destiny on the horizon, as if I had misread the map.

But then came the worst turbulence yet – another sickening drop into the depth of empty air.  The nearer we draw to safe harbor, the more the demon howls.

And yet the real world – the world we are entitled to live in again – still has us in its orbit, pulling us through this awful storm. A beacon with its own center of gravity. I believe it.  The precious, ordinary day is coming when I can stand a little too close to you and ask, “Where were we?”

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Flowers on Sunday to Begin With

Lilies, larkspur and single-flowered stock – the fragrance of Old Spice and Easter, blooming in vases from the White girls.

New Year’s Day is my favorite.  You get to make it what you want – and who you are hoping to be.  Of course, this is true of every day but it is too terrifying to live that way.  We need the security of our familiar obstacles – at least, I know I do.  My cozy Reasons Why are among my oldest friends.

There are some things I want in 2021.  But mostly I think I’ll work on letting myself be.  I feel like I’m about as improved as I’m going to get, and any way who am I trying to impress?  One of the big lessons of adult life is that people are not paying that much attention to your flaws.  In fact, people are just not paying that much attention to you, period.

The Shepherdess vase has some big scars on the back of her cornucopia – the result of an accident serious enough to justify tossing her out.  Not hairlines or chips but fractures glued back together.  Mended and serviceable, but not the same.  And yet, more beautiful to my friend who inherited the broken vase because of the stories it contains. Meaningful to me because my friend trusted me to love a mended vase all the more when she passed it along.

I would like this year to be like the Shepherdess vase.  To forgive things for breaking, and to patiently glue the pieces together.  Not to forget what broke, or hide the scars – or make too big a deal out of surviving.  To know that a mended life still holds water, and can still be a beautiful container for lilies and larkspur.



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Flowers on Sunday As Always

I had the camera out three of the past four days. On the other afternoon, I napped in the last of sunshine that warmed my chair – right there, behind the flowers.

The proportion of onion to chuck roast was just about perfect, and the crock pot did the rest. You can’t beat CrockPotRoast for Christmas – unless you have Brisket.  Nothing beats brisket.

Four days living as myself – the sound of your voices, your laughter echoing like timpani, recalibrating my heart to its own natural rhythm. The ghost of Christmas Disappointment failed to appear, and I was free to give you love and hold your hand.  That made me so happy, to be able to help.

The losses endure, but they are not the burden.  They are a sign that life has not forgotten us (to borrow a little Rilke). Putting on the Face – that’s what takes the toll. But not until tomorrow.  Right now, I’m here, and you are in my mind and heart as always. I remember.  It was really a fine Christmas.


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Christmas Ever After

Just because I don’t expect people to find silver linings doesn’t mean I don’t have faith that we are here for a purpose.  Mainly, I think, to be good to each other and kind in whatever little ways we can manage.  And yes, to forgive – beginning with ourselves.

Santa came early, and the joy of hearing your voices was an ordinary miracle that I can barely reckon – a kerplunk of love expanding toward a more spacious shoreline, as wide as your smile, always opening my heart.

Your voices, your love.  Miracles enough for me.  This is what I wished for.

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Flowers on Sunday Before Christmas

Yesterday there was a little sliver of dawn at the horizon.  But I am always cautious when that edge begins to appear.  Aware the inky turbulence of heavy rain still looms ahead – a long way to go before you see any more of the road than the amber pinspot of headlights.

Why it feels so good to me to fuss with these flowers, I honestly don’t know.  I worried this week that the lingering bruises of disappointment and my bone-dry fuel tank might have left me stranded somewhere even petals couldn’t find me.

Miraculously, though, the magic held.  It still rained like hell for a while – but somehow I stayed on the road.  I can’t say it any clearer than these pictures – what I can’t stop hoping for, even though I feel hopeless.  It comes back again and again: the urge to open and yield to the unforeseeable, no matter what has gone before.  That was my miracle today.

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Flowers on Sunday from Django

I’ve been listening to the Mills Brother this week – which turns out to be a pretty good way to trick Pandora into playing Django Reinhardt.  That relaxed guitar, pulsing across the darkness, as each note slithers off to finds its companion.  Confident, effortless, brash.  Phrased right to the precarious edge, like driving into a steep curve a little too fast.  The Mills Brothers, on the other hand, glide so smoothly along the precipice, you barely notice how close you are to sailing into oblivion in their luxury saloon.

This was just a terrible, terrible week – though I know yours was far worse.  My container broke, and that’s a fact.  It was something little, but so arbitrary and unnecessary – like all the worst things that find the place you didn’t realize was exposed.  We don’t do silver linings on this blog, so if you want me to cheer you up, well – you are doomed to be disappointed with this particular ramble through my mind.

The best song I heard was one we sang growing up – “The Glory of Love.”  And another one that completely fits the world right now – “Til Then.”  And, “Nevertheless,” which is just true.  I don’t want to hope right now.  I just want to know that I am not alone.  And – when the world is through with us, we’ve got each other’s arms.

I’m putting them on the Playlist page.  You’re welcome to listen.

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Flowers on Sunday in the Winter Light

I had to buy a new camera – well, as new as a seven year old camera can be.  This new camera loves me, and I love it.  We get along so very well.  Just as soon as I say, “Oh, look at this!” it replies, “Yes, indeed!” and off we go.

Usually I try to have something to write you on Sunday night, but the only thing I want tonight is the Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club (or, as I thought of it at age 8 or so – the Bologna Club).  So while Lord Peter figures out who put the digitalis in the old general’s brandy (not making this up), I’m going to let Hal Borland speak for me, in a voice I don’t have the heart to find in myself without his gentle light:

No night, not even the Winter night, is quite as dark and silent as it seems.  Go out and accept the night on its own terms, even now, and it takes on new or long-forgotten meaning.  Walk a country road and you can see as well as feel the Winter night, light and alive in its own proportions.

Starlight is strangely brilliant, once you accept it.  The whole sky has its own glow, which silhouettes the trees and the hills.  It comes to life on a slope of frost-bronzed grass.  It is reflected from the frosty trunks of the birches.  It is magnified in the roadside pond, ice-silvered to mirror sheen.  It almost gleams from a rooftop, and it is reflected from a darkened window.  It is a cold, distant light, yet it is light that marks a path through the woods and gives shape and form to the roadside walls and rocky banks.

And though the insects are gone, the night is not silent.  No fox may bark, no owl hoot, and yet the night is alive with sound and movement.  The subtle movement and the infinitely varied voices of the wind.  A leaf scuffs along the road.  An oak tree, not yet completely naked, rustles crisply.  The grasses sigh.  There is the soft, intermittent whisper in the high tops of the elms.  And the towering hemlocks murmur among themselves with a voice quite different from that of whispering pines.

You walk, and you see and you hear, and it is ancient knowledge re-remembered.  No night is quite so dark as it seems, once you explore it; no night is without its familiar voices, once you are prepared to listen.

Hal Borland
December 2, 1951, New York Times
Collected in Sundial of the Seasons (Lippincott 1964)

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Flowers on Sunday Until Then

The shutter failed on the camera this afternoon, so for now the flowers I bought today are for my personal edification only.  I found some real beauties this week – new shapes to wonder at and get to know.  Pink-shelled calla lilies, thistles topped with puffs of golden orange needles, and olive twigs still bending to the wind they grew in, all plunked together with twists of alstroemeria and the dark-eyed punch of sunflowers.  The tea pot and white pitcher are full, and the tarnished Hilton coffee pot found its place, too.

I treated myself to Monday off, and I’m just starting to feel like myself again.  Most days, I’m just enduring what needs to be handled, accommodated or ignored.  Deep concerns are pressed to the edges, holding on Until.  Until there’s a little more quiet, and the patient time to listen.  And the expectation of forgiveness.  This all requires a certain ration of nothing to do.

The stakes have been so high for so many months – and no way to calculate the phantom losses that loom over the days and years to come.  I was thinking I had a choice to make – to let go and move forward, or be anchored to a truth I can’t look away from.  But I remember now.  That’s not the way this goes.  Grief is the companion, and you can’t sneak away from it while its back is turned.  Grief holds the compass to its own mysterious, shifting terrain.  The only way through that I know, to find a truth I can live with from what’s happened – and to let the truth change with time.

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