Flora, 5.25.13

The other day, my kids and I stood on our front porch picking lilacs.  

I know, I know - it's All Lilacs All The Time this time of year.  But they're my favorite (we picked our wedding date based on when they'd be in bloom), and since it was Mother's Day, the children wanted to do anything and everything to make me smile.

Mother's Day has never been a thing for me.  When I became a mother, it was important to me that my kids never felt guilted into awkward or forced displays of Hallmark affection.  But this year, they were completely in love with the idea of loving me, and I'd be an idiot to reject that, right?

And so we picked.  We filled vase after vase after vase, some huge and table-ready, others big enough for only one sprig, and spread them throughout the house.

:::

Later, after mid-day errand running, my family returned home with this:

This is Roxy.  

Each year she'll gain a friend on Mother's Day.  

And the space around my lilac bush with grow and grow with kitchy love.

FLORA 05.24.2013

"He loves me.......He loves me...not. He loves me"

Each petal falls like a crisp autumn leaf drifting to the ground. Gently, ever so gently, a petal is plucked and ritualisticly discarded for the next pluck. The suspense rising in ebbs and flows.

"He loves me.....not?"

Anyone can see that the flower lacks the right number of petals to turn out a favorable outcome. In this recognition, she speeds through the act as to not drag out the turmoil this causes her twisted little heart. Which in turn twists her lips.

"He loves me. Helovesmenot. He loves me. Helovesmenot!. He loves me....Helovesmenot....."

The flower is slammed to the ground. The cumpulsive twitch of her eye disturbs her vision and she violently chokes another daisy from the vase.  A quick glimpse out the window and she sees him across the way still sitting on his recliner playing his favorite first person shooter. He's still with her. The twisted sick lips twerk up in to something of a half hearted smile.  With the flower nearly snapping in her grasp she begins again.

"He loves me. He loves me, not. He loves me. He loves me, not. He loves me. He loves me, not. He loves me. He loves me, not. He loves me. He loves me....not?!"

Rage pours into her blood and she feels the boiling infection taking over. Glancing at the vase she sees there are still around a dozen flowers at her disposal. Knowing not one of the naked green stems matters a wink. It only feel good to say 'he loves me'.  Still, she needs it to be 'he loves me' every time. She, again, discards the stem to the floor...

...Topping off the other flowers, naked of petals, littering her whole apartment.

FLORA 05.23.13

Take a slow walk, a right step and then a left. You are pulled neither forward by your past nor backward by your future. The ground moves beneath your feet, leading you to the edge of a wood.

Step delicately upon soft, mossy logs. They give way, sinking into the earth from which they sprang, many many years before. Their endurance has relented, embraced now by the simplicity of decay. Step deftly between the delicate new growth of trees and plants. Watch as they bend and sway in the breezes that sweep by your ankles.

The leaves at your feet are damp--the smell of recent rains linger. You pace along, dream-like, here below the canopy. Time seems to move in faster currents above. The rain's influence is not yet diminished by the afternoon’s hot, raking sun. Lift your head and feel the air's thickness on your lips as your breath draws in. Inhale the exhalations of those nearest you.

Be careful! You’ve nearly tripped over a root. Look down.

The wet weave of leaves are torn, revealing the histories of years past, a palimpsest of oak and maple and cherry and aspen and birch. Lost in identity, into soil, disassembled to mingle among the fine dust of forgotten mountains. 

The hills summits' behind and before you once offered higher views. Shear peaks in this valley have come and gone. They rest now beneath your feet, crushed by the years, by the strength of water freezing and thawing, by wind, by scraping glaciers, by the heat of the sun, and by the pull of the earth.

There are stories in this wood which have come and gone: of venerable trees, of magnificent creatures, of foolish and enlightened men--their stories as plentiful as the leaves littering the ground, and as impermanent. They have come back to the earth that gave them form, that gave them sustenance.

Walk among them. Step upon a mossy log. Breathe in the rain's remnants. Take a right step and then a left.

FLORA: 5.22.13

I thought it would be something like the genetic aversion to the taste of cilantro. You know, how some people think cilantro tastes like soap. I don't get it, but there is an entire website devoted to hating cilantro.

I could find no such thing in regards to lilacs. No study finding genes that would influence my perception of their aroma. In fact, ihatelilacs.com is an available domain, as are .info and .net...so, maybe I am alone in this? A genetic anomaly?

***

It was such a sweet gesture, though. He brought bouquet after bouquet of them inside, our first Spring in the farmhouse. I guess I had never really noticed lilacs before, not on the west coast, but after getting through a long Vermont winter, they were the first blooming thing we saw (that wasn't yellow), and well, they happened to be breathtakingly beautiful after the cold and the white and the brown branches...and here, here were mason jars full of them in several shades because -oh joy!- they were prolific around our new home...dark, medium and light purple blooms. Even the snow-white flowers were gorgeous, set against the deep green leaves.

He was full of delight at their beauty, placing them in the kitchen, on the dining table, in the bedroom, everywhere. "Lilacs are just incredible," he told me. But, I...I hardly noticed them for my sudden and consuming obsession of figuring out where the heck the cat was pissing.

"What do you mean you can't smell it?" I asked him. "It's, like, all over the house. In every room! I just don't get it...it's not like Enki. He must be anxious about something." The smell was overwhelming...why couldn't I find it??!?
The smell was stronger where the bouquets were placed. How odd. No...wait a minute. It was all becoming clear. I asked him why he didn't just tell me it was the flowers all along. Why did he humor me, looking around for puddles of cat piss? He looked at me like my hair just changed color or something. I thought, oh my God, he thinks they smell NICE.

Crestfallen. Now he wants to remove them from the house. No, no, no. I can deal with it. They're pretty. Pretty nauseating. No, just pretty. He thinks they smell a little like roses, but more...oh, what was the word? Intoxicating, yes that's it. And then I realize that I've never particularly cared for the smell of roses, either, as lovely as they can be.

It takes me a while to convince him it's okay to leave the lilacs be. I'm just glad we don't have an annoying problem going on with the cat, I tell him. And in a few days they'll wither and I can take them out to the compost. 

***

There's a lilac where we live now. It's the first really spectacular bloom of the season for us, since we have only a few tiny stalks of forsythia that don't get enough light. I admire it from the sliding door, and the bees admire it, too. It really is beautiful, but he never tries to bring the blooms inside anymore.

The other day I went out for a morning run, and there is a house I sometimes pass that is completely surrounded by mature lilacs. I counted them: nine, each of them easily 10 times as large as the one beside our deck. When the aroma hit my nostrils I nearly swooned with the nausea it induced. How awful to see such beauty and feel so sickened by it!

I got home, and our lilac tree seemed puny dainty, in comparison. A jar or two's worth of clippings could not take me down the way that cluster of giants did earlier. I can make this sacrifice.

I bring a bouquet in and place it on the dining table.
Another, I put in our bedroom.

He notices the gesture, and is moved.
I love you more than avoiding nausea, my dear.

Flora: 05.21.2013

I was 15 and walking into my first funeral. The sickening sweet, thick smell of the lilies that surrounded her casket hit me hard. They awoke me from the daze that I had been walking around in since I heard the news.

She was only 39. Major arterial blockage leading to a massive heart attack. Completely unexpected. Entirely life shattering for me.

She was my person. Someone I looked up to. Someone I trusted. She was supposed to be there, always. Then, just like that, she wasn’t. These lilies were making me sick.

As a child I could always count on a themed birthday cake made lovingly by her. She was a talented artist and equally amazing baker. She put everything into the things she created. Especially if it was for her nieces or nephews.

We were her world. She never did have children of her own. Why would she? She had the six of us. We filled her life with laughter and smiles. She had more time to spend on us than if she had had her own kids. The love and adoration went both ways.

It was my turn to speak. Somehow my legs found the strength to carry me to the podium. I glanced over at her body. It wasn’t her. It looked alot like she did, but something was missing. Her light. I opened the paper containing my poem with my shaking hands and took a breath. The thick lily-air nearly choked me.

I rarely shared my writing with people. When I did, she was always included. She loved my words and would encourage me to keep writing. After she died I found it hard to concentrate, hard to write. I was able to write a short poem in her honor for the service, but that was it. I stayed blocked for years. I would try to write about her, about anything, but found it too painful.

I finished my poem and folded the paper. I could feel her all around me. I felt comfort and deep pain all at once. The unfairness of the situation was way too overwhelming for my adolescent brain.

That day and the days that followed changed me. They shaped me and introduced me to real loss. A realization that I still struggle with to this day, nearly 19 years later. I still miss her. I still feel our connection. My daughter was born the day before what would have been her 55th birthday even though I was not due for another 2 weeks. Little signs that she is still there. Still loving me.

The service came to an end. I stood in the receiving line with my family as the numerous guests shared their condolences. I don’t remember a single word or face. All I could think about was getting out of that building and away from those lilies. I finally was able to step outside. The sun was blinding and the air refreshing. The pain subsided a little. I took another breath. She wouldn’t want me to be sad. “Celebrate me,” she would have said. I tilted my head towards the sun, and took yet another deep breath.

It was going to be ok. It would hurt like hell for a long time, forever, maybe. But, someday, I would think of my aunt and smile. I would celebrate her and the effect she had on me. Every daisy chain I made with dandelions would bring memories of her. Every birthday party for my daughter would also be a celebration of a woman she never met. I would become grateful for the time I did have with her.

I caught up with my cousins as we walked to our grandparents house. We smiled, we laughed. We left the funeral and the thick, sweet smell of the lilies behind. We walked toward our bright futures with her spirit in each of us.

FLORA 05.20.2013

I decided not to write about that one girl named Flora who I knew a while back, because I really didn’t know her very well. I have a picture of her with a cowboy hat on, her bust pushed up and her teeth all straight, sharp, and white. I knew that at one point, she lived in a trailer on her parent's property in Fort Bragg, that she was proud of going both ways, that she was a vegetarian, and got drunk quick.

There was that traveling perfume salesman who chatted me up on a train from Portugal to Genoa. He was too slick, and smelled like sweat and synthetic flowers. We left the train car and pushed ourselves against the main cabin window so he could shout out the names of the plants we were passing in Arabic. He told me enthusiastically that my name was a plant in Arabic. Not the spelling of my name exactly, but Sara with an e and maybe two r’s. I remember watching him and his friend etch my Arabic name onto construction paper, as the train bumped and curved along the old tracks. I could probably find that paper somewhere in some box in my parent’s attic. A box that says something like, Sara’s Sentimental Stuff, Don’t Let Go! 

When I was in 6th grade we were studying Explorers, and we had to find a quiet spot up in the woods behind our school to sit alone with our clipboard and pen and write about what we saw. We would name the plants and the flowers. We would discover new creatures and shapes; we would draw them. We would be contemplative and observant. We were the first explorers to discover the depths behind the Greenfield Center School. I found my spot on a tree trunk, ready to take it all in, and I sat on a beehive by accident.  From a distance, my teacher thought I was dancing and told me to stop. This was not the time for dancing, it was time for quietly exploring. I was trying to be quiet, a good student, and just shake the buzzing off of me. The teachers thought I was just being silly, until I ran down the hill screaming. Later, I counted my 108 bee stings, while my teacher slathered them with meat tenderizer. 

I might’ve been able to hide the fact that we had a big party in high school, until my mom noticed the toothpaste spit hanging over a few blades of grass and the lilies. She couldn’t believe I let people brush their teeth and spit up on our lawn. I was happy that was all that she saw.

My step dad used to mow the lawn in his sweat pant cut-offs. He would always leave little patches of grass, if they had those yellow wildflowers mixed up in them. His sensitivity to living things is extraordinary. The backyard was small, so when he was done, it always looked a bit uneven, which both frustrated my mother and made her love him even more.

We were 18 when we found our way to the nudist colony in between the mountain with a vein of silver and the mountain with a vein of gold. That nudist colony run by the old Australian man, who looked like Doc from Back to the Future, who told us about the late night, only by donation, munchies jar in the reception area. That nudist colony that me and my three friends never would have found if we hadn’t started talking to that guy named Blaine in the mineral caves. The nudist colony that had a wooden swing right outside of the sauna, where I shyly and then joyfully swung naked, letting my feet brush through grass and then up over the edge of the cliff, as a deer knelt by and watched.

California’s got me with all its aromatics and textures. All of those succulents, palms, mosses; hedges of rosemary and jade. The douglas fir, eucalyptus, sequoias, and those gigantic stalks of bamboo. The night blooming jasmine seduced me first. I used to slather my wrists with the oil when I lived in Michigan, just to remind me of night time in this city. Most of the time it’s succulent, sweet and indulgent. But sometimes, when I come home late at night and I'm in a mood, it’s cloying, stuck up, and needy as hell.

New England’s got me with its sturdy hardiness and gradations of green. All of those pine, maple, oak, cherry and birch trees. Backyards full of bleeding hearts, hydrangeas, apple and magnolia trees. Then there’s the cow and horse shit smelling up the fields for whole stretches of road.

New Mexico could easily steal me away with the burning of pinon, desert sage, sweetgrass, and cedar. That perfect mix of smokey smells, barren land, and dry heat, that make every breath and step feel like an incantation.

Flora 05.19.2013

Flora’s feet barely  touch the floor of the filthy south-bound bus. Despite her stature, she’s thick, strong-legged, full of piss and vinegar. Her flesh colored stockings sag and hang off her knees and ankles, full of runs, mended over and over with clear nail polish. Her grey and white striped dress, thin with wear, sits just above her knees, lined with careful, hand-hemmed, red stitches.

In her weathered, leathery hands she holds a photograph; it’s wrinkled, dog-eared, and loved. Dark hair hangs loose from her bun, falling wildly around her face, but beneath it she is beaming.

The girl sitting beside her is no older than seventeen. She’s wearing nonfunctional strappy shoes, freshly manicured nails and an attitude that says she couldn't possibly care less about anything or anyone. She's chewing gum and staring out the greasy window-- anything to avoid eye contact. She's trying to appear confident and mature, but she's insecure and scared and everyone knows it. The daily commuters can smell her vulnerability.

Flora rocks back and forth in her seat, clutching the photograph so tightly that her fingertips turn white. Finally, she turns to the girl and boldly holds out the photo exclaiming-- nearly screaming-- "This is my granddaughter! She was born last week! I'm going to see her!".

The girl looks uncomfortable for a moment, her face filled with hesitation and dread. With wide eyes, she scans the bus to make sure nobody is watching before she takes the photograph. Holding it up to the sunlight, she stares at it for a moment. All she sees is a wrinkled and hairless lump, wrapped in a yellow blanket.

Their eyes meet and Flora's are welled with tears. She is so filled with life and hope that she is shaking and grinning.

The girl looks at the photograph once more, and with a sincere and childishly innocent smile says

"She's beautiful".