I was talking to my brother, Cody, on the phone this morning as I walked around my yard in Philo, searching for some distraction to get me out of this mourning funk…anything. “Cathy’s x-mother-in-law passed the night after Amy did. We’re still in grieving mode over here,” I explained weakly, feeling guilty that yet another weekend was winding down and we still hadn’t made the three-hour drive to Winters for a visit to see his new house.
Cody was fine with it and we continued talking as I walked from plant to plant, summoning gratitude and appreciation for the miracle of spring in bloom, not wanting to miss a moment. The French Lilac that I brought as a cutting from the church at the end of our driveway seven years ago, was in full bloom. Breathing deeply into its magic, I marveled at how happy it was this year—definitely the happiest Lilac yet. I visited the new Bearded Iris with its white petals trimmed in a deep purple next to the Budleias; it was bigger than my outstretched hand. Looking at its beautiful yellow inside, I could smell its sweet fragrance hinting of the divine. Amy loved her garden and hadn’t been able to visit it for more than nine months because she couldn’t get out of bed. I made myself be out in my garden all week since I learned of her passing. I weeded around the Crepe Myrtle Cathy planted near the house and discovered some Gladiolas shooting up from the ground that had evaded relocation a couple of years ago. The only thing left from the Chocolate Dahlia in the corner of one of the garden boxes outside of our bedroom window was an old dead stem, which snapped dryly in my hand. Tossing it onto the ground, I hoped there was still a part of the plant that remained alive, hidden beneath the soil. The French Sorrel next to it said, loudly and clearly, “Green smoothie, anyone? I’m ready.”
Circling around the front of the boxes, I removed more leaves and weeds, wondering what we were going to plant there this year. I began feeling slightly distracted, and possibly, happily, tempted into engaging in something other than recent days of depression and lethargy. I smiled as I saw that our chard, kale, parsley, and collard plants were finally taking off and knew they had survived the winter and would thrive soon under the returning sun. The church bells rang in the morning breeze, just like they did every Sunday. It was [11:00] o’clock.
I continued talking to my brother and removing debris from the beds when I noticed tons of last year’s tomatillo husks littering the soil, decomposing like little Chinese lanterns. “Wow, Cody! You should see these! I’ll take a picture and send it to your email,” I exclaimed with the thrill of child-like discovery and curiosity. As I said goodbye to him, I scooped up a handful of the skins and carried them to a place where the morning sun could shine on them. Their shadows were stunning. Looking closely, I discovered the remaining seeds inside the delicate skeletons of last summer’s prolific purple tomatillo plant. I marveled at how nature protected the seeds and ensured their dissemination even after the plant itself was long gone. What was left behind was so light that the breeze almost blew them entirely off the bench before I could get a good picture of them. I chuckled at myself, trying to lasso the errant pods, engrossed in the ingenuity of nature and was reminded that in death there is beauty, there is healing and there is the promise of rebirth.
Photo by Sky © 2010