See? The rose-peach quince is in bloom, another confirmation of spring’s constancy, the reappearance of an old friend who blossoms her hello to me each and every year without fail. It’s been over a quarter century now, and she was already grown and in full flower when I met her.
I raise my lemon water in a toast. “To you, fine old friend,” I say aloud, and she nods in the gentle May breeze, her coral skirts flared, her yellow stamens raised to the sun. Then we both stand silently for a moment, breathing in each other’s joy, satisfied and glad.
Just to see green again and tender leaves opening beneath a cloud-billowed sky is enough to let you breathe again, to sigh contented sighs of relief and joy. In the reeds by the creek at the base of the hill red-winged blackbirds call and the grass sprouts wild forget-me-knots and dandelions. The world is alive again. And so are we. So are we, my love. So are we.
If May gives us nothing beyond this one perfect day, it will have been more than enough. From its clear dawning until the sun set in a flotilla of golden clouds, each moment came drenched in beauty. Dew sparkled the morning’s lawns; tulips opened, and violets. Robins and finches and doves caroled in the branches of trees that were alive with buds and leaves in a thousand shades of red and green. And above them, whipped cream clouds danced with the sun, painting the land with kaleidoscopic hues, now bright, now dark, now showering the earth with luminous pearls until you reeled in wonder that such heavenly beauty could continue hour after sparkling hour. And when the sun had set, the azure dome, clear now and turning indigo, lifted its moon and planets and stars in a magnificent silent finale, leaving you in awe, that you could be, here, now, alive in the midst of all this splendor.
Back in the old days, people knew how to recognize medicine on sight. When a child brought tiny blue flowers to her mother, the mother would say, “Oh! Speedwells! Aren’t they sweet? And did you know they make delicious tea and that they will cure what ails you?”
And the child would lead the mother to the patch where the speedwell grew, and they would dig little clumps of it with delight, the mother telling all the ailments it was known to cure: cough, rough breathing, hurting skin, rheumatism, tummy aches and more.
And at home, they would brew some tea, smiling as they slowly sipped it, and some would go in a labeled bottle, an elixir to soothe you and restore you to health. And they would place some of the little plants in the garden because the sight of them alone is enough to brighten your day.
It’s not that nature’s beauty consumes me. It’s the refuge it provides from the rest of it, from conflicts and disasters large and small that cover the globe; from the endless prattle of the lonely because talking is the only way they know to mark the world with their presence, to connect, to find meaning; from the struggles for survival, for status, for power, for control, and for all the touted doodads that promise to raise them or to provide relief from the fight.
Walk in the woods. Listen to the trees. Observe the details in the smallest flower. See the seasons unfold. Watch the clouds and stars float above you. Take solace in an order beyond our knowing, a power and intelligence we cannot comprehend. Feel how you are a child of it, how you move within its omnipresent embrace, loved even when you are asleep in it, unconscious of its plan and grace and mercy. Wonder at its intricacy, its obedience to inviolable laws. Think how this is but the skin that the Yes wears, this mysterious, ever-dancing curtain of matter. Think how majestic is that which brought it into being and bestowed on us our capacities to see, to taste, to move and desire, to seek, to find, to love, and, finally, to know.
Except that the Yes is the source of joy, Spring need not have come with such beauty. A limited pallet might have served as well, a handful of standardized designs. We could have as easily performed our daily tasks without being caught in this web of wonder, without being stopped in our tracks to gaze and smile at little pink flowers whose centers burst with polka dot stars. But the Yes, which is made of love, cannot help but leave its beauty everywhere—just in case your heart might need to hear its tender, endless song.
Unlike flowers, who know only joy and whose tenderness is unfailing, we who dwell in human skins know such things as cruelty, grief, pain, and loss. And that is why the flowers are tender and why they whisper joy: to comfort us and remind us that even in our darkest days, we are deeply loved.
“Thank you” seems so small a phrase, wholly inadequate in the face of the burgeoning green of these fields and hills spilling over now with flowers beyond counting in hues beyond our power to name. Still, I kneel before the pristine trillium and can conjure no other response. What utter mystery that such varied beauty can rise from mere earth, and that we should be here, in the midst of it, seeing!
All winter, as I endured the cold and dreary days, the treacherous heaps of ice and snow, I told myself that beneath that barren, frozen ground, flowers slept. The mere thought of them pulled me through, rekindling my desire for the tomorrows of spring. It all seemed so far away, almost impossibly distant. Did I imagine flowers slept there? No. I remembered the feel of the moist earth as I placed the bulbs in the little holes that I had dug for them, wishing them sweet dreams and saying little prayers for their well-being. And today, here they are, their delicate beauty touching my soul, a promise fulfilled. And my spirit rises on their fragrance, singing with them, “Thank you! Thank you!”
Remember, remember, they whisper, that I, too, was a star, shining for my moments in the world, beaming my light, singing my song. Like you, I smiled and cried, I loved and lost, I walked alone and with sweet companions. I toiled at my work, I savored my leisure. I stood in awe of the mystery of it all. I drank both of suffering and pleasure. I gave it everything I could give. And I would do it all again. I walked before you. I walk with you still. Forget me not, dear children. Remember me kindly. Remember.
