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“…they do not spin…”

October 14, 2020

No, the flower is not a lily. But it is a Rescue Flower.

Bought for $5 from the back shed of a garden store, just prior to being put in the mulch pile, a few months ago, a fairly dead hanging plant was at the right price. And a summer of MiracleGro inorganic, industrial grade, feeding and the one spot of sun on our near 2 acres, transferred it, and a bunch of other Rescue Flowers for a full season of blooming, for a gardener that loathes feeding, weeding, and all the things gardeners are supposed to love.

I love fixing. The 23 “gardens” (or 27 if you count the replanted failures) at our place are really impositions of desired plants supplanting (no pun intended) indigenous poison ivy, jewel weed, and sumac. They survive or die, unwatered, unweeded, but loved A few even flower in a dark, salty, rock filled landscape.

But that’s not the point.

Beyond my planting nothing that grows on our place cares anything about anything except growing. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin…”. They have one life purpose: Life.

We, on the other hand, care deeply, fully, maniacally, about purpose and outcomes. I care that these plants are not mulch. I care, even though I used pretty heinous means, that they flower.

It gives me unexpected joy. Every day.

So much so that I will miss them when gone, even though I understand that they will be gone, soon.

Maybe it is that I intervened, I saved, I nurtured and I allowed extension of life even though we simultaneously cut down a blighted 180 year old maple and see that the plague just keeps ravaging along. Oh, and Corona19.

In a sea of 2020, our intentions mean almost zero. Our desired outcomes are either dumbed down to distantly seeing a couple of friends, or we congratulate ourselves for our careful responses and thoughtful meanings applied to this complete freak show.

But I do like the flowers. They are, well, beauty. In a sea of not beauty.

This will be over. Hell, all of our lives will be over soon enough. But “over” is not the issue, either.

What is the meaning of even these patrician problems? I see no meaning other than beauty. And God. Who made the fact that I love flowers (that are given to me) for zero discernible meaning other than its undeniable joy. No matter who is on the Supreme Court or elected President.

I was completely transfixed at a 3 year old playing with her mother’s hair in the safely distanced, outdoor waiting line at Starbucks this week. She just loved her mon. Her mom’s hair. The morning. She was safe, and loved. We are all she, we just forget.

For each moment, we are safe, and loved. In a sea of noise and threat. In the aggregation of tempestuous fears, we only have the fears that flowers cannot see, let alone care about. We can lose ourselves in these righteous fears.

Or we can see the lilies and play with our mother’s hair..

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