when we moved into this house in january of 2007, we knew that the backyard would be the best part. it's huge, a massive, elongated tract of land, edged at the end with tall trees and a bamboo grove. my brothers and i played memorable games of football and cricket back there, and in the light-darkness of summer, we played "capture the flag" with torches and our cousins in tow. for our parents' anniversary, we surprised them with a porch swing that seats 3, complete with awning and cushions, and a table and chairs for the deck. summer evenings we ate dinner outside every night, and weekend mornings, pancakes were consumed in our pajamas on the deck. we caught summer fireflies in jars, slipped in mud behind the evergreens, set up a tent and sleeping bags outside, or simply lay on our backs in the grass and watched clouds pass over the sun and stars pass by the moon...
two glorious summers...but the best part for me alone was the surprising effusion of flowers, planted and forgotten, on the left side of the yard. our predecessors in this house had planted all number of flowers - small blooms that looked like hearts when they were buds and bloomed into little pink stars, climbing red, pink, and white roses, orange lilies, bluebells. for every week of the summer months, new flowers would sprout up and out, and i would cut some to bring into the house, so that we had flowers in vases all summer long.
i didn't do it last summer.
they would have bloomed, forgotten and tucked away in that corner of the yard this summer as well. but a rosebush happened to catch my eye this morning, and clouds came and went in thick hordes, promising inevitable rain, and in an instant, i grabbed the garden shears and ran out the door.
you have to wade through a sea of grass first, smelling freshly cut, and as you pass to the side, the flowers in the clearing become more visible. we've had so much rain this year that the grass is greener than usual, and the flowers hardier. we've never had so many roses, and as i cut and stacked flowers on the grass, i found myself thinking about the nature of things.
i read somewhere, in a religious text (either Quran or Hadith, i can't remember which) that when good people die, the skies weep. having lost my brother, maybe i perceive that there's been more rain than usual...storms, wind, pouring rain. the skies have wept and the ground has been soaked. the rain used to bother me - there's a part of you that still attributes a person's soul to the body that carried it, forgetting that the body is simply a vessel, a means. and i was a protective older sister...rain reminded me that my little brother was alone, had always been afraid of rain and lightning and thunder, and was now buried outside, exposed to the elements. gradually, i've weened myself away from this idea. but every time it rains now, it's as if the skies are weeping for him.
and yet...that rain has created more beauty than existed before. the roses are stronger, the flowers have increased in number. so i see a metaphor in my garden, and it suddenly means more to me than it did before: i see that only the most beautiful roses are cut before their time, to be admired at closer proximity; that hardship, like rain to the flowers, makes us stronger; that the essence of a beautiful flower, the smell and touch of it, extends beyond its mere frame and remains etched in the subconscious of our senses; that the inexorable pull of time means flowers will bloom, wither, and fade year in and year out, whether we stop to look at them or not...
No comments:
Post a Comment