A Blooming Reminder

My grandmother always relished in the newness of spring.  She seemed to become a new person, like the crocus and daffodils pushing through the cold soil.  She always seemed to be most beautiful in the light of early March.  She entered and exited the world with those early spring blooms. 

Growing up, it felt like her yard sang from a hymnal more glorious than any church I’d ever visited.  Her flowerbeds were an act of worship.  They were littered with myriad flowers and herbs.  She knew them all by name.  Each new sprout had an origin story of where she got the original plant.

There was a truth to her garden.  It was one of the few pure things she had complete control over.  She obsessed over that little piece of land.  There were quite a few little plots scattered all over her one-acre property.  Weeds would occasionally overtake a lesser-maintained garden bed.  The flowers still fought above the bramble in defiance of their circumstance.  My grandmother could find a four-leaf clover almost every time she went outside.  She had a knack for spotting them but never seemed to retain the luck they represented.

She’s been gone five years this week.  I watched her take her last breath in that cold hospital room.  I later dug up her gardens and flowerbeds and threw them all in the back of my truck to transplant in my yard.  That was my only “inheritance.” It was all I could have ever wanted.  Now, I see her beauty every spring. 

Daffodils are blooming in my yard.  It’s impossible not to think about her every March when those yellow blooms sing her name.  If she taught me anything, it was to always look for the beauty in the world.  Her gardens were a way for her to dismiss the poverty in which she lived.  She was rich in beauty.  The hopefulness of a blooming flower gave her more than money could buy.  Those little things buried beneath the cold darkness of winter’s soil had the power to burst forth at just the right time with a kaleidoscope of colors.  That is a true joy.

When she passed, we had her cremated according to her wishes.  Her ashes were mixed with wildflower seeds.  The attendees at her funeral were given packets of seeds to spread in memory of her.  I love that idea.  My people don’t have grave plots.  We exist in the lilies in roadside ditches.   We are dogwood blossoms in spring.  We are the beating of hummingbird wings at a honeysuckle vine.  That’s all that matters to me.  We all end up as dust in the end. Our lives and stories are just fertilizer for the beauty we’ve left behind.

What impact are you leaving?  Have you considered what your existence means to those around you?  It doesn’t have to be complex.  It doesn’t have to be grandiose.  My grandmother showed us that despite the card life has dealt you, you always have a choice to leave the world a better place.  You can control how you perceive the world around you and how you treat others.  I choose to see the beauty.  I hope the seeds I've planted will outlast me.

---

If you liked this one, check out this post from last year that you may have missed:

Home Is Where You Plant It