It’s the day after the summer solstice. I woke up to another thunderstorm this morning, just a gentle one, the thunder talking softly, and the lightening answering in a whisper, like two parents trying not to wake a child in the next room. Yesterday morning I watched a wall cloud come in from the west, beautiful and smooth and full, the deep gray-blue color of rain. I stood outside as the wind blew in, roaring through the cottonwood and hackberry trees in the creekbed and then reaching the the hedgerow of our place, not a one-direction wind but the kind that swirls and twists and lifts the limbs of trees up as if they were dancing. Big, heavy drops of rain spattered the bricks of the walk. I had been surveying the damage to my flowers from the thunderstorm of a few hours before, and now had to watch from the window as the wind and rain buffeted the garden again.
Things looked tough yesterday morning, but I spent a few hours in the afternoon staking the poppies and snapdragons and tying up the hollyhocks, which came very near being snapped off at the root. I should have had all of them tied up before now, so I’m lucky they survived. Some blooms were broken off and other plants I cut back, hoping they might not be so susceptible to wind if they weren’t so leggy.
What I really wanted was to have a solstice party. I’ve wanted to have one for the last three years, but haven’t had the nerve. Because I’m not much of a party person. I’m a capable hostess, but not one who sparkles. I don’t charm people and make everyone feel at ease. And it seems like a solstice party needs sparkle and laughter and people who feel easy and free. A Mrs. Dalloway-type. I don't really know how to make that happen. I mean, to be fair, it was such a muggy, buggy, miserable evening last night that I don’t think it would matter if I was Meryl Streep - no one would have enjoyed being out in the garden.
Nettie and I ended up making a flower crown from the damaged flowers. She’s been asking to make one for a year, every time she sees the photo of her crown from two seasons ago. But last summer I couldn’t even scrounge up enough flowers to make one for her. It was the strangest year, nothing bloomed for me. So this crown was way overdue. She’s grown so much since the last one. She knew where she wanted each flower, and of course she had doubts about my idea to include greenery. Moms have questionable taste, you know. But we managed to make something we both liked and even though we couldn’t spend the evening outside, eating and drinking lovely things and watching the sun set, I think we did the best we could in that moment. We made something beautiful together.
More and more, I feel like it’s important to celebrate. In big or small ways. It all counts. That sort of crystallized for me on the morning of the day we lost sweet old Rory. We can get very used to walking by things or people in our life and not seeing them, not really appreciating them. And that’s a shame, because nothing is permanent or promised. Even as I write this, this morning’s poppies are dropping their petals in the rain. So do what you can. Take a walk. Make a flower crown. Stop and watch a poppy nodding gently in the breeze.
No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.- Virginia Woolf
On June 1, we lost our cat, Rory. She was a huge part of my life. I shared about her passing on Instagram, and since I don’t think I can write anything more articulate about it yet, I’m sharing those posts here.
(June 5)
There is something about loss and grief that brings everything into higher relief. On Saturday morning I went out and saw the dew clinging to each blade of grass and the crepe-paper petals of poppies unfurling and everything looking so kind of heart-breakingly beautiful that I knew it was the end of something. I could just feel it was the day to let go. I'm not sure if that makes sense to you. There was something that to me, seemed poetic. Even though the only rule my poetry teacher in college gave us was *don't write about your dead cat.* Even though I know she was right, it felt poetic to me, the passing of this animal who had shared so much with me.
I don't want this to be a post that makes anyone sad - - I hate being hit in the face with something ugly in the middle of a nice scroll through happy, beautiful images. I've gone back and forth as to whether I should say anything at all - but I don't think I can move forward posting here without mentioning my sweet kitty Rory's passing, as it was such a long and happy chapter I had with her - nearly fifteen years, since she was the tiniest puff of an orphaned kitten who ran right up my leg and looked straight into my eyes.
Please know that the sort of wild grief I felt for the first few days has passed, and I think I am fairly sane again. So don't grieve for me, certainly. I am getting along. And know that we had a beautiful last day with Petey, as we called her most of the time, and she went peacefully and without suffering, knowing she was very loved.
(June 12)
Flowers have been a great comfort to me this spring. I go out every morning to see what's happened in my gardens overnight - see what has sprouted or grown taller or opened, see what is getting closer to bloom, see what the worms are eating or what a cat has smashed. It's a distraction from life, but then again, it is life - the whole cycle from seed to flower, to withered bloom that bears more seed in its death.
I don't think there's been a day since April, that we haven't had flowers in the house. Sometimes half a dozen bouquets, when Nettie's been especially industrious. Sometimes just a few tired blooms dropping petals and pollen on my work table. I've tried to celebrate them all - drawn and painted them when I could, photographed many, pressed and dried them. But I think the loveliest way to enjoy a flower is just as the sun is coming up and everything is still wet with dew, and there you are, the first witness to all the potential that lay waiting in a tiny seed.
P.S. and then a cat sits on it. And THAT'S life. 😂 .
Featured Posts
