Lovely violets. My mother had a collection of them, too. At the grocery store, if she spied one she liked, she would pinch off a leaf to take home to start a new plant. I thought for sure they’d throw her out of the store one day. Thankfully, that never happened.
"But now is not flowering time. Now is the time to tend and feed, to watch and wait, to find containers with more room for healthier roots." Such true words for this time we are living through. I love the extended metaphor of this piece, and how you turned such hard living into a beautiful essay.
Grateful for your wise reflections, Rita. When former teachers/librarians weigh in on style or craft, I always sit just a bit taller in my chair. Besides that, I'm just glad to be making my way among such kind souls these days.
You understand well, Nancy, and reflect back so much goodness. I'm grateful to be in a community of hope here. Thanks for being part of it and for chiming in today.
Oh, so appreciative of that, Toby! It always interests me to find that grief (and joy) burble up this time of year, even when I'm not actively thinking about all that happened. Thanks for spending some time here today.
"They’ve shown so much resilience already. I have every reason to believe they will not just bloom again but thrive." - ah, may the same be true for each of us.
How wonderful that first November bloom, on such a poignant day. Were you looking, I wonder, to see if the bloom would break free, a longed-for sign, or did you happen to glance over and see, out of nowhere, the bloom? Such a moment of serendipity!
Two lines here....
This is so evocative .... this detail of the phototropism is beautifully used here: "A bare, twisted stem wormed at an odd angle toward the diffuse light coming from the patio door." --- How resilient, to be angling towards even the glimpse of light!
And this...
"...in her former guest room, where the walls in late afternoon glowed like parchment. Like her, they seemed to appreciate how time folded itself into warm creases of stillness there,..."
Lovely. The parchment. The folding. The tone is beautifully matched to this memory.
I appreciate the finding and calling out of a talisman. I hope the violet makes it.
Amy, what a good question! I wish I could remember clearly, but I do not. My guess is that I was paying attention to it. The buds are visible for such a long time before they open, and I tend to peek at them daily when they're in that stage.
Earlier, for the March trip south and that 4-day marathon of sorting through the contents of the townhome, I happened to glance at my phone as we headed out of the driveway to see that it was 12:22. Her birthday. ☺️
I appreciate knowing which parts of this piece felt meaningful to you. It's affirming but also...what's the word?...instructive. You are a conscientious reader. Thank you.
Sometimes I think we see what we need to see. Other times I think we're at the receiving end of an open portal. Probably a little of both.
That 4-day push was grueling. I slept little and cried a lot, but there was also a good deal of laughter. I think it's different when you haven't been sharing the same space with the person who's gone. There's a different kind of attachment and intimacy with what you're processing, though I will say that the hardest part, for me, was (and is) the awareness that everything I touched had once been in my parents' hands.
I nurtured a grapevine cutting from my mum's old house. The grapevine would have been a 100 years old this year as my grandmother planted it when my own mother was born and it grew lushly over an archway, turning firebox red in autumn, letting the world know it had beauty, not just purpose.
When the new owners ripped out the grapevine, I discovered one night as I walked the dog, that tiny plants were emerging through the soil. Lawless and ill-disciplined, I crept to the archway in the dark of night (the new owners were rebuilding the house and had yet to move in), dug up the infants and nurtured them for a year. Then this summer, we had a foul, hot day with a blistering wind direct from an open oven and the grapevine fell over in its pot and dried out.
But I repotted it, cried over it, fed and watered it and told it that it had a strong heritage to lean on and that all would be well.
Right now, it's firebox red and almost ready to be transplanted to our fence where it will let the world know it has history, as well as beauty and purpose.
And by the way, I did wonder if your story was indeed a metaphor for the USA... XXXX
Prue, how fantastic! I don't know a thing about grapes or grapevines, but I hope your plant(s) continue to thrive. It must have broken your heart a little to see that the original had been ripped out, and I would have done exactly as you did, given the chance. Beauty and purpose - huzzah! -- though sometimes beauty is plenty, is it not? ☺️
Thanks for sharing this part of your gardening heritage here and for your thoughts of this country's present day trouble. It's going to take our collective attention to nurture this one back to health.
Coaxing a plant to bloom, and giving the process time, is an act of hope. My act of hope is welcoming a new rescue dog, a more challenging critter than the last, who will need time to bloom.
Yes, Rona, I believe that's true about how growing plants can be an act of hope. I especially feel it in my vegetable gardens but have related feelings for a few special houseplants, like the violet violet. 💜
Your pup rescue requires far more dedication and skill than mine. Chica is a fortunate new friend, and I think she's blooming before your eyes.
I knew her well..... God bless Nancy and God bless those beautiful violet blooms..for bringing us JOY....
So much joy, Barry, something you also do beautifully. 🩷
The Time for Flowers - Emily Scott Robinson ❤️🩹 https://youtu.be/gqZzjLaHBIg?si=rTOZ33Lmrp55lMq7
Whst a beautiful song!!!😻
Could not agree more, Shalagh!
Perfect, and so moving. Thank you, love.
Lovely violets. My mother had a collection of them, too. At the grocery store, if she spied one she liked, she would pinch off a leaf to take home to start a new plant. I thought for sure they’d throw her out of the store one day. Thankfully, that never happened.
What a great memory, Suzanne! I'll have to tuck the idea away for...someday. ☺️ Thanks so much for sharing that ray of sunshine today.
What a tender, touching story. And a reminder of hope, nurturing, nature…
I need and receive daily, sometimes hourly reminders, Mermaid. I'm glad I could give back something in return. Thanks for reading.
Our Nancys loved their violets. This is beyond lovely. "twilight crushed into silk." yumminess.
I might have guessed. A violet violet, in fact. Thanks for popping in today, Courtney. It's great to see you.
"But now is not flowering time. Now is the time to tend and feed, to watch and wait, to find containers with more room for healthier roots." Such true words for this time we are living through. I love the extended metaphor of this piece, and how you turned such hard living into a beautiful essay.
Grateful for your wise reflections, Rita. When former teachers/librarians weigh in on style or craft, I always sit just a bit taller in my chair. Besides that, I'm just glad to be making my way among such kind souls these days.
May we nourish ourselves and each other. Love your words, Elizabeth. Peace.
Peace... Such a timely wish, Pam, thank you. And thanks for the restack. 🩷 So good to see you here.
What a beautifully written story. The hope it brings. The fond memories I have of your mom, my godmother and namesake. Thank you Betsy ✨️
You understand well, Nancy, and reflect back so much goodness. I'm grateful to be in a community of hope here. Thanks for being part of it and for chiming in today.
Lovely story of processing grief and the seasons of life. I love the plant as metaphor
Oh, so appreciative of that, Toby! It always interests me to find that grief (and joy) burble up this time of year, even when I'm not actively thinking about all that happened. Thanks for spending some time here today.
I’m working to find a way to make weeds useful, because they are the only thing that strives under my guidance.
Ah...maybe just embrace it. I can give you a recipe for a delicious chickweed pesto! 🌱
You know what they say about weeds: They're just plants in the wrong place.
So good to see your name pop up here today, Switter. Hope all is well.
"They’ve shown so much resilience already. I have every reason to believe they will not just bloom again but thrive." - ah, may the same be true for each of us.
Thank you for your words.
Thank you. It helps to "say" it out loud, and to know I'm among like-minded souls. Hope you are holding up okay, Roe, despite everything.
Coaxing back from the brink... that phrase alone makes your piece worthy of *****
Feels to me like there's an awful lot out there on that edge these days. Thanks for the stars, Jill, and for being here.
So special. So heartfelt. Thank you!!
Appreciate this, Beth, and you!
How wonderful that first November bloom, on such a poignant day. Were you looking, I wonder, to see if the bloom would break free, a longed-for sign, or did you happen to glance over and see, out of nowhere, the bloom? Such a moment of serendipity!
Two lines here....
This is so evocative .... this detail of the phototropism is beautifully used here: "A bare, twisted stem wormed at an odd angle toward the diffuse light coming from the patio door." --- How resilient, to be angling towards even the glimpse of light!
And this...
"...in her former guest room, where the walls in late afternoon glowed like parchment. Like her, they seemed to appreciate how time folded itself into warm creases of stillness there,..."
Lovely. The parchment. The folding. The tone is beautifully matched to this memory.
I appreciate the finding and calling out of a talisman. I hope the violet makes it.
Amy, what a good question! I wish I could remember clearly, but I do not. My guess is that I was paying attention to it. The buds are visible for such a long time before they open, and I tend to peek at them daily when they're in that stage.
Earlier, for the March trip south and that 4-day marathon of sorting through the contents of the townhome, I happened to glance at my phone as we headed out of the driveway to see that it was 12:22. Her birthday. ☺️
I appreciate knowing which parts of this piece felt meaningful to you. It's affirming but also...what's the word?...instructive. You are a conscientious reader. Thank you.
Four days. Wow! (That shines an odd light for me here.)
The magical numbers... wonderful. Those small symbols and signs can be such a comfort, right? I remember your influx of them a while back.
(My mom had a similar thing happen with yellow roses that bloomed out of nowhere or out of season, one or the other, after her mother died.)
Sometimes I think we see what we need to see. Other times I think we're at the receiving end of an open portal. Probably a little of both.
That 4-day push was grueling. I slept little and cried a lot, but there was also a good deal of laughter. I think it's different when you haven't been sharing the same space with the person who's gone. There's a different kind of attachment and intimacy with what you're processing, though I will say that the hardest part, for me, was (and is) the awareness that everything I touched had once been in my parents' hands.
I nurtured a grapevine cutting from my mum's old house. The grapevine would have been a 100 years old this year as my grandmother planted it when my own mother was born and it grew lushly over an archway, turning firebox red in autumn, letting the world know it had beauty, not just purpose.
When the new owners ripped out the grapevine, I discovered one night as I walked the dog, that tiny plants were emerging through the soil. Lawless and ill-disciplined, I crept to the archway in the dark of night (the new owners were rebuilding the house and had yet to move in), dug up the infants and nurtured them for a year. Then this summer, we had a foul, hot day with a blistering wind direct from an open oven and the grapevine fell over in its pot and dried out.
But I repotted it, cried over it, fed and watered it and told it that it had a strong heritage to lean on and that all would be well.
Right now, it's firebox red and almost ready to be transplanted to our fence where it will let the world know it has history, as well as beauty and purpose.
And by the way, I did wonder if your story was indeed a metaphor for the USA... XXXX
Prue, how fantastic! I don't know a thing about grapes or grapevines, but I hope your plant(s) continue to thrive. It must have broken your heart a little to see that the original had been ripped out, and I would have done exactly as you did, given the chance. Beauty and purpose - huzzah! -- though sometimes beauty is plenty, is it not? ☺️
Thanks for sharing this part of your gardening heritage here and for your thoughts of this country's present day trouble. It's going to take our collective attention to nurture this one back to health.
Coaxing a plant to bloom, and giving the process time, is an act of hope. My act of hope is welcoming a new rescue dog, a more challenging critter than the last, who will need time to bloom.
Yes, Rona, I believe that's true about how growing plants can be an act of hope. I especially feel it in my vegetable gardens but have related feelings for a few special houseplants, like the violet violet. 💜
Your pup rescue requires far more dedication and skill than mine. Chica is a fortunate new friend, and I think she's blooming before your eyes.