the zyx's of life

these 26 entries from z-a are meant as a tandem collection of short essays.  instead of the abc's of life, i'm writing backwards for two reasons.  t.s. eliot said that to make an end is to make a beginning, which i find true.  that and my grandfather could say the alphabet backwards faster than i could say it forwards.  now that's some wit.

Z-zinnia:  flowers, essentially

"love the plants, love every leaf." --fyodor dostoevsky

once i get rather severely reprimanded for sending flowers.  i mean well, of course, and am so delighted to have pulled off anonymity that i don't think about the consequences of a married person receiving a bouquet without a note attached.  it's meant simply to encourage a friend but ends up making them mad, causing spousal friction between them that i, as a single person, did not anticipate.  the only reason i know it backfires is owing to a phone number being required with the order.  the friend matches this number with me and lets me know they don't appreciate the gesture.  eventually we laugh about it.  but my mental note is made.

i have my great grandma nettie's vase.  she had a way with both plants and people i can hear when family tells stories about her and see reflected in photos of her smiling in her flower garden.  since i'm named after her, i want to emulate this, to the point of posing in the same manner next to my sunflower crop one year and framing the photos side by side.

walking dahlia rows with my parents, i see one called "white nettie" which grounds me in the moment as surely as our generational feet tread lightly upon the soil.

when i resign from the church i served for ten years, they give me flowers which i do not keep, as they weren't so much for me as for appearances in front of the congregation.  and, when i take a new job offer after teaching at a private school for fifteen years, the school does nothing.  it is my father who gives me flowers to commemorate a season well done.  and it is this bouquet i keep and refresh for as long as it will last.

the first day of my new job i get to help unwrap and hang the most exquisite floral art pieces, made by this lovely artist who collects and meticulously and intuitively arranges petals on a scanner and whose shows have been not only nation, but world-wide. unwrapping each piece tells me a story, one of which i purchase to give to my mother when 2020 means she is unable to come to the show in person.  

right now this cross between robin egg blue and mint green ceramic vase of my great grandmother's is holding forced spring branches.  the dear family who brings them to me aren't sure they'll bloom and confess, "there's a chance we brought you sticks".  but sticks placed in water infuse me with hope nonetheless and reveal the art of anticipation. what better way for counting down to spring equinox?  the white blossoms are right on time, heralding in silence the transition from frost to thaw with tender frills enough to kindle envy in any bride or dress designer.

it is no small thing to me now that my great aunt alma took fresh flowers to church for the altar every week.  i suppose like birding or joy at such ritual, these things only appreciate to me after several decades; a memory waiting to unfurl.  

one year instead of a christmas tree, i spend the same amount of money but am able to buy enough flowers for four weeks of fresh advent arrangements.  traipsing around the five acres cutting greenery makes for free swags and garland.  

zinnia, rose, dahlia, holly.  each in season, each in turn.  

august finds wild sweet pea pods audibly popping open, filling the neighbor's field to the point of bursting.  flowers making sound becomes a poem to submit for tiny seed journal's wildflower theme.

in france it's me who makes a big sound, nearly causing a car wreck with my sudden shriek of joy over the endless yellow sunflower fields, far deeper and broader than any we have in the states.  my friend who is driving has to pull the rental car over so i can tumble out and wander among the stalks.  (this reminds me of getting lost in my great uncle's corn patch forty years earlier.)  when lost among flowers, as with anything, i find it best to sit down and wait.  you will be found, eventually.  a few days later, i am in bliss brushing my hands over seas of provençal lavender. 

now i work for a lavender farm and every july it comes to life and is given everyone's attention.  i learn to better appreciate the fallow but key seasons; ones no tourists are here for--walking through the greenhouses, learning about propagation, and kicking away snow to reveal the varietal names for inventory.  tickets to mucking around when not even the landscape gardener really wants to be out don't sell, but i'm loving the learning; having it all to myself.

this is to say nothing of the cult of the snowdrop.  i think they are just simple flowers that cover woodland areas, but i learn from a dear garden-loving pal that they are, in fact, sought after to the point of one bulb selling for over a thousand dollars.  the next time i see some, i snap a picture and send it to her:  a whole new world and we, the varietal detectives.

during 2021 a few of us gather to do yoga in my neighbor's small lavender field in bloom. it is a way of being together; calming our minds, bodies, and hearts.  the bees are plentiful, but could care less about us, drunk as they are on nectar and pollen.  only once am i stung and that is only because i squash one in coming down from plank pose to cobra pose and it feels threatened.  

this is also when flowers graduate from luxury item up to essential on my shopping list.  without guilt, i circle the florist stalls picking out combinations of everything from protea and yarrow to sweet william and allium.  

i amass books on flower care, techniques, and arranging.  once back in person at work i institute "fresh flower friday" wherein i traipse around the winery grounds and make arrangements in every season.  late fall is challenging, as in colleagues make fun of me, teasing, "we dare you to find something beautiful out there right now."  rose hip, seed pod, cattail, mistletoe, and rosemary accept the challenge, coming to my rescue.

a friend, also in her forties, is diagnosed with stage three breast cancer.  this invasion of her is surreal; it seems we had only just been out stand-up paddle boarding and kayaking on the river with her being a radiant picture of health. after the last chemotherapy, we celebrate her being done with treatment.  

calling my neighbor, a floral designer, i tell him my budget, a bit about my friend, and the circumstance.  not only does he make the perfect arrangement, but he also lets me text and stop by after hours at his front door to pick it up.  he has created a gorgeous bundle of dried flowers in pink hues that can never fade.  it is so ideal i simultaneously throw my arms around it and him.

when i smell lilacs, i remember the friend who didn't recover.  no matter where she or i live, for over eighteen years--this and other miracles--one of us always has a lilac tree in our yard.  light purple or white but mostly deep aubergine color.  at her memorial i give her family a small lilac tree wrapped in burlap they can plant if or where they choose.  it is in bloom somewhere and, even though i no longer have lilacs in my yard, a friend does and always brings me a fresh bunch in a canning jar or wrapped in moist paper towels of memory.

a friend and i share a random acts of kindness day together where we stick positive affirmation post-its around town and do things like paying for people's coffee.  not only is this a refreshing take on "getting together", but the best part?  peonies are in season so we fill the car with stems and give them to people who look like their day might need brightening. i'll always remember walking into a shop and handing  this stoic-looking asian man a bundle of peonies.  he burst into joyful tears!

here is nature continuously giving herself away in petals.  she has a scent for every memory and marks moments that can never die.  my imagination makes me want to scatter wildflower seeds in everyone's front lawn, much to their h.o.a.'s consternation, but to the happiness of bees and passersby. and send them to everyone, even married people, but not anonymously.  flowers, essentially.