In the garden

 My Mom loved to garden.  She grew beautiful balanced flowerbeds with plants lined up in rows like soldiers and, like class photos, tallest kids in the back.  Plants were something we had in common that we could talk about.  She always wanted to know what was growing and flowering in my yard and she'd tell me what she was growing and what her next project was going to be.  And, I wasn't the only one.  Several people came up to me at the funeral to tell me how much my Mom loved to garden and how they had beautiful plants in their gardens that she had shared.  And, I could not go there without bringing back a half dozen pots of things.  Even after her death, I brought home an iris, some clematis, some rose cuttings to try to root, and a flowering almond.  

Over Easter weekend, when she could still talk easily, she went on and on about me getting a flowering almond from hers.  I didn't take one that weekend, but I did the next week.  It came from my Aunt Lucille's house.  I don't remember it as a child, but she did and wanted me to have a bit of it to carry on in my garden.   It's just a twig in a pot right now, but I think it's going to make it.  

This is the iris

And, this is the rose

You can see why I was so eager to take bits of them.  

In my garden, things are also starting to bloom.  It's Iris season here.  

And, the oakleaf hydrangea is getting started.  

Cinco de Mayo rose

And, my first daylily of the year is this little Stella D'Oro, but there are scapes all over the yard and we are going to have a very good daylily season.  

It was very important to keep something like gardening in common with my Mom.  We didn't have much else in common.  We believed different things and we lived our lives very differently.  And, by golly, she just could not help but bring those things up.  Sometimes, all she'd want to do is run down my politics or my parenting.  I always thought it was just me, but it seemed like everyone from the preacher to my cousins shared a variation of 'your mother was hard to get along with, but she did it with love."  If I could go back and say one thing to her, I think it would be that maybe love is about swallowing your own thoughts and making others feel good about themselves.  Of course, that's easier to say than to do.  

I find myself saying thank you a lot.  I've really noticed it these last few weeks.  I try to thank Rob for the things he does.  I'm constantly thanking people at work.  And, now I thank my family a lot.  I've realized I have a lot to be grateful for and maybe saying thank you isn't just about being grateful to the other person.  It's also a lot about me acknowledging how I feel.  It took a long time for me to accept that I couldn't do it all and rely on others and that I needed to recognize them for that.  

I'm sure I'll share lots of other stories about my Mom now that she's not there to read them.  They're not all happy tales.  After she passed, one of my Aunts turned out to not be who everyone thought she was.  There was a long story that one of her sons shared with me, just trashing her.  It made me realize that I don't want to do that.  I don't want to put the unhappy stories out there.  I've dealt with them and don't have regrets.  But, the happy stories aren't really ready to come out yet either.  I guess I'm in the angry stage of grieving.  But, like all things...this too shall pass.

Everybody have a great week!  Last week was crazy as I tried to get caught up at work, and in the garden and in the house.  So many things had to be done after I was away for three consecutive weekends.  But, I also needed rest, so I had to prioritize what I accomplished and take some time for me to just sit and watch TV.  I don't usually sit still well, but I did pretty good on Saturday and Sunday afternoons.  



Anonymous said...

Please have a great big Scottish hug from me, Lane. X

Anonymous said...

Lovely post…thank you. We appreciate you sharing your thoughts and your life with us. Mary

cbott said...

Yes, the sitting. It's another way to stop and let everything process.

The ambush cry will happen, and you don't have to make sense out of it or justify it to anyone, even (especially) yourself. Just cry.

Hugs from someone who's recently been there,

Carolyn in Pflugerville