52 flowers

The story

2011-03-11T07:46:00.000-08:00

I have a book

With many pages

And many stories

bound to tell.

If the mood is right

I will read these words

Without regret,

only tenderness.

In this book of many pages

There are leaves pressed between.

Dividing chapters and events.

A birth.

A death.

A change of address.

In this book of many pages

There are blank pages too.

Without text or image.

Unsaid words.

Places I’ve yet to go.

Colors I’ve not seen.

I'm so careful not to break these fragile flowers.

Which remain tucked away

Aging day by day.

Slowly fading back into

The yellowed pages

where they were born.

And just as ashes bring forth the springtime,

so the story goes.

Memories remain on this shelf.

Between the leaves,

in my book of many pages.

week 48.

Sometimes the spring just seem too far away. I need something to remind me it's really on it's way. At times like these, I like to imagine a different life. I dream of a life where I can finally achieve all my heart has yearns for. But the truth is there is no better life waiting on the other side. We have what we have, right here in front of us. There will always be parts unfinished, relationships undefined, feelings that need time to heal. All of it is a work in progress. We have good years, we have bad ones, just like crops and plantings. At the end of winter I like to open my old books and look at the dried flowers and leaves. I like to see how they fared, maybe just to remind myself that the story goes on.

River stones

2011-02-12T18:09:00.001-08:00

The shifting of the plates of the earth.

They move with a subtly that almost goes unnoticed.

The way the clouds roll past, those too,

mere, small increment for the gods.

But the unsettling nature of how huge that can be can throw me off,

even today, with steady footing.

Such a place is familiar,

when all I know is the way to the next stepping-stone.

I skip across the stones and wait for the next one to arrive beneath me.

Let the stillness have its way.

Let the silence break my every doubt.

Because somewhere up in the sky

tomorrow may hold

that small lessons

lost on today.

Week 47. Stability

On my walks through the woods I always cross over a brook on my way to the pond. One day I thought about the rhythm I felt as I jumped from stone to stone. It’s funny how you need to trust that the next stone will be in the right spot, nice and steady beneath your foot. This made me think about the way we must trust the paths we choose. We never quite know for sure if the path we choose will be solid but we must follow through regardless. Unsteadiness is always a possibility. The unknown can be scary but it can also be exciting. Sometimes I think if you can balance both the fear and the excitement of it your not doing too bad.

Stars

2010-12-29T15:04:00.000-08:00

I have one last wish for the day.

As the sun diminishes

into the vast unknown.

I wish for stars

tonight,

When the world begins again.

When I promise compassion.

Despite everything I gave

and everything I could not give.

When I know the beauty

of looking forward and backward

at the same time.

When I see what has remained

and I love it anyway.

All I need is something small.

A tiny glimmer,

Something way up high

that will lead me

where I cannot see.

Yes, I wish for stars

tonight,

When the world begins again.

Week 46. Faith.

During the last week of year I always feel like I’m looking forward and backward at the same time. I’m contemplating what I achieved through out the year and at the same time I’m reaching ahead for what I can take on, for challenges and for ways to grow. I await the New Year with promise even though there is so much unknown. I define Faith as our ability to allow ourselves to accept what that which we can't see. So I guess that’s what I wish for next year, to continue to discover small lessons of faith each day. I figure if nature can makes sense of this complex world so can I.

Christmas

2010-12-22T06:56:00.000-08:00

Christmas is not far off in the distance.

I can see it.

In the houses illuminated with lights.

Outlining every bit

of their existence.

In the evergreen.

Standing tall yet swaying,

when the snow weighs upon it’s branches.

In the cardinals.

As they magically appear,

and then are gone again.

In belief.

Belief that what can not be seen

is greater than anything that can.

Week 45. Symbols of hope.

This Christmas I got to thinking about symbols, but not the images we normally associate with Christmas, the symbols you can’t see. The things that remind me of what I feel inside during this season. One word that comes to mind is “hope”. Hope is believing that there will always be lightness somewhere, even in the darkest of times. Hope is seeing the beauty in small everyday things. Hope is like a tiny little gift. Not the kind we plan for on December 25^th but the kind that shows up when you least expect it. Just when you think you’re too tired to keep looking for it, somehow, it’s there, right where you left it.

Frozen earth

2010-12-17T18:34:00.001-08:00

I step out into December this morning

and the frozen puddles crack like shards of glass.

Frost blurs.

Sounds reverberate.

Dirt hardens to rock.

Branches snap.

It all echoes loudly.

As the wind whips through,

the edges of nature brace themselves for a long hard winter.

Then something shifts.

Something small.

The wind blows east

ever so slightly.

And for a brief moment,

There is a kind of clarity

that may just be enough.

Week 44. Refuge moments.

Some weeks I find myself focusing more on where I want to be rather than where I am. The past few days I have been questioning this, wondering why must I always do this. Why must I torture myself like that? Then there is a rare day when I can see what I have. I can slow it down just enough to stop this cycle. On those days, I’m not so overwhelmed by it all. I take a snapshot in my mind because these moments seem so few and far between. At this time of year, when we are faced with the harsh cold, I feel as though I am looking for a warm places to settle into, a kind of refuge. A moment where I don’t have to fight the elements and I can just be.

Brown leaves

2010-12-07T11:04:00.000-08:00

Brown has come.

In the piles of leaves that crumble beneath my feet,

as I walk up stone paths with you.

So much is here, as the sun sets on us.

So much proof that you are here too.

As we walk through the park at dusk,

I pick through all the fallen leaves.

Somewhere among all this I know there is color,

even in the dark.

Somehow you have fought the winter,

even before the first frost has arrived.

Week 43. The Witness

My brother and I went walking through a park in the early evening, when the sun had just set. I could see that the leaves had all turned brown but I was still trying to find some colors in the piles on the ground. That evening I was amazed at how much stronger my brother seemed. He had finished his last round of radiation treatment days earlier and seeing him still so vibrant and inspired comforted me. Slowly he was finding his passion for life again. Even in his frail state we talked like we always had before, about new ideas and funny things we had noticed about people. This was a new life I was seeing immerge and I felt as though I was a witness to a miraculous event.

Ginkgo

2010-11-29T13:10:00.000-08:00

Tiny yellow fan.

You made your way so far.

And yet you remain with me still.

I only wish to know

what makes you so different from the rest.

What makes you round and full

Instead of divided and angled.

I wish that for myself too, you know.

I wish to radiate-

To open myself up

and take in all that’s bound to me.

Week 42.Limitations.

I can’t help but notice how the Ginkgo leaf is so different from other leaves. The Ginkgo has no centerline to divide into two sides. It’s variegations come from the base of the leaf; tiny parallel lines dividing each little part. Seeing these sections, these radiating lines, made me think about the personal areas of my own life. My struggle with boundaries, those dividing lines in relationships. As I look close at the design of the Ginkgo leaf I have to ask myself - is it always necessary to notice the way things divide? maybe in times of transition it’s more important to focus on being open like a fan.

Branches

2010-11-23T13:12:00.000-08:00

I’ve walked beneath this archway

of branches so many times.

I barely make it through some days;

as the branches touch me lightly

I duck and continue onward.

But there is always a hollow space there,

made for a path

made by the many travelers

who have passed this way once before.

As I walk beneath

I can see how these branches reach to the other side-

Looking for something,

anything that could lead the way into winter.

week 41. Connections.

There is one section of the woods, right near the pond where the branches reach low and create a sort of archway where people can walk beneath. It’s almost like a tunnel of a sort. The branches are all the same kind of tree, thin wispy branches with colors that range from pale yellows to red. I got to thinking about how branches reach out to other branches. How we are constantly making connections all the time. Locking into ways to create security, strength and support. The arched pathway is one of my favorite places these woods. There’s something beautiful about the way paths form organically. I guess I’d like to believe that human connections are kind of the same. We meet others, we reach out, we try to form bonds and somewhere along the way we grow, leaning ever so slightly towards change.

Cherry tree

2010-11-16T09:38:00.000-08:00

It was not even cold the day we arrived.

We walked through the quaint northern town,

gazing upon others as if we knew them by name.

Everywhere we went I saw a red cherry tree.

In each town square,

In every field and along dirt roads,

Every time, I had to stop and look from below.

Up, into the brilliant blue sky,

Into the specked array of red dots

refracted by the sun.

Even in November

as the weather plays its tricks

and the sun filters through each section,

somewhere the familiar stirrings

of the holidays are not far off.

Week 40. The familiar.

I went up to Vermont this weekend and traveled around a bunch of quaint New England towns. It was funny, I everywhere I went I saw these beautiful trees with small cherry like fruits. They reminded me so much of a kind of mistletoe. This fall the weather has been quite mild, leaving me feeling a bit unprepared for the idea that the holiday season is almost here. Seeing these trees made me think about things that we are all too familiar with in our lives, things that we almost don’t notice anymore because we just expect them. All the things we assume will come without any effort. Sometimes we feel so familiar with those who we care for, maybe even too familiar. The word “family” and “familiar” must be related in this sense. Sometimes I forget how important close connections in my life are, they are significant because they root me back to what I know as true, and sometimes that’s a very good place to be.

Tiny red leaves

2010-11-08T12:51:00.000-08:00

Each tiny leaf has it’s own way.

Some are still pale yellow;

offering me hope and opportunity.

Some are transitioning into red;

The strange world of two places at once.

And then there are the deep garnet colored leaves.

The ones that are there to guide me

Towards letting go of this branch;

something I’ve waited my whole life for.

Week 39. Mortality.

I’ve been thinking about how small events are there to help prepare us for greater events. Like for example, letting go. To me, this represents the idea of letting go of my own life eventually. I know that I struggle with letting go of many things in my life. Each one is a kind of preparation. I believe these small things give us tools so we are better equip to handle what’s to come. It makes sense to me that we would need to prepare ourselves emotionally and psychologically for something like death. Looking at the small experiences and seeing connections to a larger event may be one way of processing the big stuff.

A family of leaves

2010-11-01T16:18:00.000-07:00

I look at each leave and it is clear they are related.

Each one is slightly different.

One larger.

One louder.

One never shows his hand.

So I place them in a line

and then into sections;

and wonder I how this is fair?

How can they be the same

when circumstances divide,

creating beautiful imperfections

and deep rooted scars

which forever remain.

Week 38. Brothers and sisters.

I have been collecting families of leaves these days. Examining the small differences between leaves from the same tree. It’s fascinating to notice the spots, the browning edges, and the splattered inky blotches. As I look at the variety within a single family of leaves I think about my siblings. I think about the things that divide us and the things that bond us together. There are things from our pasts that no other person has lived through but us. But now that we are older our lives seem to divide. I watch my brother struggling with radiation therapy and I think about how each one of us must make choices as to how we can help. I have come to realize that letting go of the hurt from the past is instrumental in being able to give unconditionally.

Collecting Leaves

2010-10-27T13:33:00.001-07:00

Once in a while,

when I am walking through a forest,

I look down at the hundreds of leaves beneath my feet.

I remember that I have seen many lives,

I have collected them too along the way.

Then I go home

and open a book,

and there are the leaves once again.

Carefully pressed inside,

fading slowly,

but there to remind me

how far I had to walk.

Week 37. Organizing.

Some days the memories of the past come in and cause me to slow down and look very close, almost too close at times. I have to stop what I’m doing to reflect on the life I lived, the person I was back then. I know we all go there at times, to those dark places that cause us to want to be alone. There is no cure of coarse, and that sucks but there are moments of hope too, moments when we feel like it’s all been worth it. All the choices are the right ones and it was all meant to be. It seems as though reminders of how we made it through are so important. It can be an object, a song, a poem, anything. It’s remarkable how we need markers, like chapters that divide our lives into sections. I find it fascinating to think about how we are constantly trying to organize our minds the same way we do our everyday lives, seeking ways to put things away, ways to process what we lived through.

The grand leaf

2010-10-20T08:20:00.000-07:00

Some trees shed the greatest of leaves.

So grand you cannot simply pass them by.

You must stand and look upon them

as more than single sided.

Turn it over you will see hundreds of variegations,

leading you off into all sorts of directions.

Week 36. The other side.

I found a huge leaf while walking the other day, so big it reminded me of an elephant ear. I turned it over to inspect the intricate network of veins, much like those in the human body. This habit of turning things over I seemed to have picked it up from my good friend Clare. One day, while walking through a flea market together we came upon a pile of interesting fabric scraps. I pulled out a few quilt squares that caught my eye. As I was looking at the patchwork scraps, admiring the color combinations and textures Clare immediate turned each square over to look at the backs. She explained “the reverse sides are always much more interesting”. I had never thought about it like that before. We show the neat, organized self but it seems more important to notice the process of what it takes to get there, the stuff most people don’t see. This idea reminded me of a line in a play I saw recently. One of the main characters said, “It’s more important what we can not talk about than that which we choose to discuss”. It’s kind of the same thing when you think about it. Examining what we choose not to show is really the part that we should look at, how else can we understand how we are made.

Leaves

2010-10-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve been looking up

into the trees.

Into the rays of the sun;

the way it peeks through the branches,

allowing tiny pockets of warmth

and minutes at a time

to be still.

The trees are changing that is true.

I continue to walk,

collecting the leaves as they fall.

Searching for variety;

for the subtle differences between each one.

Each pattern is a map.

Each possibility natures way

of saying that every path

is the right one.

week 35. Variations and paths.

I have been walking through the woods looking for leaves these days, seeking out all sorts of varieties of shapes, colors and textures. I began to think about how many possibilities we encounter each day and all the variables that affect the choices we make. Wouldn’t it be easier to have a map or better yet a GPS in order to know which path to choose? I guess I’m much more at peace when I let go of that idea though. When I stop worrying so much about where I’ll end up and just try to notice what’s in front of me.

But my walks in the woods got me thinking about the simple act of walking as well. There’s not much needed really in order to walk, just the desire to move forward and that can be done even with out legs. I think that creating art is the same way, you have to just get in there and do it, there is only so much thinking you can do. At a certain point it’s better to just make the mess and then worry about how to clean it up. Wisdom seems to come from the process of moving forward, what ever the out come we grow from noticing what we feel, what we see, even what we collect along the way.

Tears for flowers

2010-10-05T13:14:00.000-07:00

Rivers have been made from the thousands who have cried.

I know I am but one of the few.

These tears are small reminders

of the wounds we carry still to this day.

Yet here I remain,

collecting puddles of sweet rainwater-

my hands cupping each drop as it falls from the sky.

With the hope that all that has made the world green

will one day grow a garden of wildflowers for me.

Wild, untamed and free,

with roots wound loosely into the deep dark soil of the earth.

Week 34. Rain.

I wrote this poem a few years ago but thought it was appropriate on account of all the rain we’ve been having lately. I remember it was written at a particularly difficult time, right after my ex husband left. I felt as though I had cried rivers trying to come to terms with how my life was unraveling before my eyes. Through it all, I kept telling myself that one day all the pain would make sense. I wanted to be reminded that the rain is for a reason, that it has purpose. I also wanted know that stability was possible no matter how much it rained and no matter how long it took to get there.

Chinese lanterns

2010-09-28T08:20:00.000-07:00

The Chinese lanterns are perched

carefully in their vase.

I watch them slowly fade

from the burnt orange hollow

to brown lace.

Complete with a tiny red bulb

to light the way

as time passes through it.

And as I wait for the deep orange glow

of the Autumn to come

I see disintegration as opportunity.

Even within these silent dreams that remain

there is much that is still quite alive.

Week 33. Stages of change.

While upstate I collected a bunch of Chinese lantern blossoms from an open field. I put them in a brown ceramic vase and placed them on my dining room table. As each day passed I admired the variety of textures and colors. Some with bright orange blossoms, others dryer- passing mid stage, and still others completely transformed into a delicate brown lace. I couldn’t help but think about how each branch represented the stages of life. Then I thought about my own life. Which branch would I be? Mid way between the life I’ve lived and the life that is before me.

What really caught my attention though were the blossoms that were barely even there, the ones that looked as though they were just a skeleton of the lantern form. They were so delicately intact and yet there was something still alive in there. The seeds were still enveloped within the red bulb in the center. There was still hope somewhere in there, still a few small dreams yet to be realized. I began to consider that I too had some dreams yet to discover of my own. I’ve come to realize that observing changes in nature can help me learn more about my own thoughts and feelings . It’s hard to see change in ourselves, were just too close. But we can see it in others and we can learn by watching others nurture their dreams as they move through the stages of their lives.

chamomile flowers

2010-09-21T06:09:00.001-07:00

Tiny little child,

I’ve seen you before.

When I was just a child myself

and my mother soothed me back to sleep.

The earth rotated on its axis

and night would fall

but sleep would not come.

So I waited in the hallway

Next to the glowing yellow bulb

of a night light.

So if I awake again,

at 3 am.

Please hush away the dust of the past with once strong sip.

And let me sleep soundly

tonight.

Week 32. Rest

This weekend I went upstate to visit with friends and found a patch of chamomile flowers by the side of the road. While I was up there I noticed how relaxed I was, how good I slept. I began to think about how my rest falls in cycles just like the seasons. Some periods I sleep well and others I’m up every night. When autumn comes it seems as though nature is in the process of regrouping. Transition is so much a part of the natural process, so why is it that sometimes we need to learn and relearn how to transition? Maybe the guidance of friends can be like a strong sip of chamomile tea- something to help you slow down so you can transition with greater ease.

acorns

2010-09-14T12:55:00.000-07:00

Maples and Oaks speak though their gestures.

They remain lush in these last days-

When the sun bides its time,

drawing me back to the woods

where I can slowly find the familiar.

The trees are speaking

when the acorns fall on my head.

Hard and abrupt.

They are reminding me of something.

Like a ribbon on my finger.

They are telling me to stop.

To pay attention.

To listen to the wind when it softly guides me off the path.

For the wind and the sun are larger than anything I’ve known.

And an acorn is small enough to fit

into the palm of my hand.

week 31. Reverence

There is a church I try to attend, though I’ve missed many Sundays this summer. This week the pastor talked about the word “reverence”. He spoke about how there are few things that teach us reverence. Few things make us stop and pay attention. He used the writings of Barbara Brown Taylor to help him to describe his thoughts on the subject. In her writing she described a memory of her childhood. Her father would take her out on their deck, place a blanket down and they would watch the stars falling from the night sky. She wrote, “Reverence is difficult to define but you know it when feel it”. It’s true that feeling something with great profoundness can snap you out of the everyday monotony and force you to contemplate greatness. There seems to be a kind of awe that comes over us when we realize our own limits. How is it that so much of nature inspires us to feel closer to our spiritual beings, to find grandeur in the elements. I think it’s these things in nature that remind us that we are only what we believe, and all the rest is hardly within our control.

climbing flowers

2010-09-07T15:45:00.000-07:00

The climbing flower winds

it’s way around.

Always reaching upward.

Surrounded by the tiny spaces

between each sculpted branch.

Spaces to be filled by tomorrow.

Spaces to stop and rest.

With climbing comes taking,

and this plant knows no other way to ask

than to take root,

grab a hold,

and pull itself up

gently from the earth.

week 30. Survival

I’ve been trying to relax these last few day left of the summer. I finally had a moment to slow down but it was hard to get used to thinking about what I felt like doing when so much of these past few weeks were focused on what others need. So many things have come in unexpectedly. They never mean to take space in my worrisome mind, at 2 am when I can’t sleep. But they do. I’ve come to accept this is just how I’m made. I worry. I think through details much of my waking (and sleeping) hours, weather I like it or not. This made me think that being there for others is important but it is also important make sure there is room for ourselves.

Anyway, in this process of finding time for myself I started to think about the space that plants take up. Climbing plants just seem seem to fill in the empty spaces. They don’t ask politely. They just climb on in. If the conditions are right they know how to thrive. The survival instinct is strong in all of us, plants being no different. Recently I meet up with an old friend who had been through a difficult experience. We talked about how when life gets hard there is no time to stop and question things. You just know what needs to be done and you do it. This is that survival instinct once again; the body and mind just come to together to find a way to get you through another day.

Green grass

2010-08-25T10:39:00.001-07:00

The greens are in full swing

this morning

when the rain comes to settle in.

It has rained all nightlong and the grass

has gotten long enough to wade in.

I walk with the dogs through the long blades.

Barefoot.

Waitng for the dampness to lift;

all the while knowing

I might as well get used to the

way the grass feels beneath my feet.

Week 29. Uncertainty

This past week my brother came to live with me. It seemed like the best thing for him, considering all the circumstances with his recently hospitalization and rehab. During this time I found myself with many conflicting feelings. I kept telling myself that in time things will get better. In time, things will change. I also kept thinking about this idea of uncertainty. I thought maybe if I could just let all the uncertainty wander in and out of my life maybe that would ease some of my frustration. I know that I will always expect things to get better, but could it be that accepting hard times, not resisting, could help to be more resilient.

Aloe

2010-08-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

I pushed the wheelchair

toward the hospital garden,

and as I stood behind him

I saw the stitches in the back of his head.

A train track of them.

Delineating the place where

The work was done.

I almost thought to touch it

but part of the scar seemed so raw.

Once in the greenhouse,

we stopped to admire the prickly aloe plants.

We talked about their healing qualities,

then he carefully plucked an appendage of the plant,

squeezed the thick liquid into his palm

and rubbed it into his large hands.

He placed the rest in his pocket.

I continued to push him,

out through the greenhouse doors

and into garden.

week 28. Healing

The other day my brother and I visited a beautiful greenhouse/garden in the rehab center. There were all sorts of amazing plants there. I noticed small plaques scattered about explaining some unique attributes of certain plants. The signs were designed to give hope and motivation to those challenged with building their bodies and minds back to a place where they could learn to be stronger and more independent. This made me think about the Aloe plant. There are thousands of remedies derived from the Aloe, not just treatments for superficial skin ailments but all sorts of remedies to cure internal issues as well. These days, I watch my brother slowly building himself back physically I know that he is also learning to heal inside as well. He is learning how to live with the knowledge that cancer is a daily reminder of our own mortality.

August field

2010-08-07T16:02:00.001-07:00

The dusty landscape is still before me.

The August heat weighs heavy

and within the field of dry grass

there is a sprinkling of tiny flowers.

Tiny voices telling me

that tomorrow is another day

and if I just take care,

with swiftness and ease,

here is where I’ll remain.

week 27. Caretaking

This week’s entry has been one of the hardest to write thus far. My brother had emergency surgery a few days ago, a tumor was found in his brain. The surgery was a success, he’s well on his way to recovery but I was deeply affected by this turn of events. Yesterday I sat with him as he told me a bit about what he was going through. He said something to me that seemed to resonate, something along these lines: “Most of the time we spend so much energy thinking about the things we don’t have or the things we want, what if we spent that same time thinking about what god has blessed us with here and now”. I had to nod my head when he said this; I completely understood what he meant. I too find myself saddened by what I feel I want and can’t get. But seeing him there in the hospital bed, struggling to make sense of what had happened to him reminded me that I too need to try each day to accept my life and my own choices, trusting the reciprocal nature of how we care for others and others care for us in turn. Caretaking is one of the biggest lessons that plants can teach us. Just being there to assess the various needs, being attentive enough to observe and sensitive enough to know how to give back is what in needed to care for a garden. Isn’t that how we nurture those we care about anyway?

Jade

2010-07-27T18:54:00.000-07:00

The rain has come again today.

I see the wooden cabinet by the open window.

It’s begun to warp in the spots where the rainwater has collected.

There, my jade plant sits among the others.

Most days I walk past it and never even notice the dry soil.

But when the rain blows through the open window on this day,

I can see the water darken the dirt

and once again I remain still,

as the small drops of rain

provide sustenance.

week 26. Compassion

It’s amazing how succulents sustain themselves with so little. This is truly a testament to their adaptability. Human beings also need to learn how to live in difficult conditions. It puts our resiliency to the test and forces us to revaluate our choices.

Recently, I became friends with a woman in dire circumstances. She is separated and with 4 kids and no child support from her husband. She has only a court appointed lawyer, which has been of very little help. Her story really made me think about survival; how we adapt our lives in order to deal with a crisis. Sometimes we need to work with so much less than we ever thought was possible. Our resources are stretched to the limit and it is at these times we feel the most alone. But seeing the pain in others can change us. Having compassion for their stories can change the way we live our lives. Maybe it’s the deeds that come from this compassion that truly has the power to transform.

Papavere

2010-07-20T10:56:00.001-07:00

A friend once told me that poppies bloom in full

for only a few days.

Their colored pedals crumpled within,

they release them open,

then their delicate paper pedals fall to the earth.

What remains are the wide round stamen,

standing strong in all it’s nakedness.

Such a striking pose captures me every time.

I can’t even pass one with out thinking

That is one bold flower.

week 25. Centering

I always seem to notice poppies when I see them in gardens. I just love the stark graphic nature of them, even when all the pedals fall off and you are left with the long green stems with their rounded ball at the end. When I look at the remains of what was once a beautiful flower I think about how it is that they can stand so tall, naked and exposed like that. The center part seems to set poppies apart form many other species. Few flower have such a large complex stamen. Flowers with such unique components are just so striking. Maybe that’s why I like Poppies so much, to me, their unique centers remind me that even paired down, its what remains in the center that matters most.

Roses

2010-07-12T11:49:00.000-07:00

When I was young there was a rambling rose bush

by the side of our garage.

My mother would cut a branch or two

And send us off with them wrapped in tin foil;

to thank a teacher or be gracious to a neighbor.

I can remember how she pruned it back

in the hot summer sun.

Beads of sweat on her forehead.

There, with her bare hands exposed to the thorns,

carefully allowing her fingers to feel the branches.

That was the only way to know

how best to shape it

so the beauty would show through.

“Nothing in nature is wasted or in vein” she would say.

She always made good use for the discarded.

That was her way.

week 24. Pruning

I've visited many rose gardens this summer and I always seem to notice how beautifully maintained the bushes are. One thing in particular that I’ve noticed about rose bushes is the way in which they are pruned. In many aspects pruning can reflect our own behaviors as human beings. For example, we must cut back and trim in order to allow a healthier plant to immerge. We try to give shape to our lives, knowing that we must be careful in choosing what allows us to thrive. Determining what to keep and what to let go of is hard sometimes, but definitely necessary. We look at the big picture (the bush) while also examining each piece (the branch). Even the things we can no longer use, those too must be considered. Maybe finding a purpose for these small things gives meaning to our everyday lives.