Garden

The garden that grief and anger built

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment

Grief stole the garden that grief and anger built. 

I want it back.

As Doug was dying, he sat in the daybed by the bay window and watched me build the garden. He was so sick, and I had taken off work to be his caretaker. Sick though he was, I had many hours left to myself. 

I sat in my family room and looked at my bare backyard.  I had always planned a grand garden back there.  Over the years I had made periodic attempts at it but my midlife career as a full-time employee and full time college student didn’t let much happen. 

Now, I had time.  And, miraculously, I had money.

I began the garden.  I built a circular retaining wall to house daffodils, peonies, vinca and ivy.  I bought a water fountain — a very modern design — so unusual for me.  I planted dozens and dozens of white petunias and white double impatiens — I wanted the garden to glow in the moonlight.  I tended to the wisteria and brought it back from the brink. 

The white roses were pruned and fed.  The furniture painted.  New cushions procured.

As Doug lay dying, I poured my grief and anger into building the garden.

It was nearly complete, as complete as gardens get, when he was hospitalized for that last time.  Three weeks or so at the hospital.  The grass and weeds grew.

The night after he died, his daughter and I sat in the overgrown garden drinking wine and telling stories about him.  Tears flowed freely. 

The fireflies darted about the weeds and brush.  Music played softly.  The windchimes provided needed baritone to the cascading of the fountain.

It was such a lovely evening for such a cruel event.

As I took care of Doug’s estate and caught up with work, the garden was abandoned.  So much to do – the garden didn’t seem like a necessity.

Soon it was an overgrown mess.  I couldn’t catch my breath Couldn’t summon the energy to reclaim a garden on the edge of a forest from going wild.

I vowed to tend it as I realized what a necessity it was.

My dad died suddenly.  The day of his funeral, I cleared an area near the fountain and planted 13 Madonna lilies — a flower of significance to him. 

As I actively grieved him, I reclaimed the garden.  Dozens of petunias, impatiens and a white Mandevilla.  The Japanese climbing hydrangea bloomed for the first time.  I found solace in the garden.

And then my best friend died. 

And along with her, the garden. 

I lost my will to bring life out of death.

It is still neglected though it provides the sudden bloom now and again — mock orange, Peruvian daffodils, lily of the valley.

During the pandemic, I vowed to reclaim it.  But then I broke my foot.  And then I contracted COVID.

Oh, how I long to get back to the garden.  I dedicate it now to me.  I need its life force to revive mine.  It is now a necessity again.

COVID-19: Day 78: Into the garden I go

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red chairI have shamed myself into taming the front of the house.

It’s a jungle out there.  I have neither mowed nor weed-whacked this year.  Nary a weed, nary a blade.  It’s a mess.

I have spoken with my supervisor, and we’ve agreed that I will be working mostly from home through the end of June.  So my social-distancing will go on for a quite a bit longer.  I confess I’ve grown weary of being alone 99% of the time — not counting the dogs and the cat who are going to be wild when I resume a normal schedule.  They are enjoying this.

I’m enjoying it too other than the 99% alone part.  I love my morning commute:  I trundle out of bed, make my way to the coffee pot (which is on a timer) and pour a cup.  This is usually at some gawdawful hour of the day, like 4:30 a.m.  I dive into email — both work and personal.  Around 6 a.m. or so, I have breakfast and then go take a quick snooze before starting my day in earnest at about 7:30 a.m.  I usually lunch at the keyboard at about 11 a.m.

By 3 p.m., I’m down for another nap and up at 4 p.m. to check into email again and to check in with the boss.  By that time of day, she’s hitting her stride, and there are things to tend to.  I tend to them and then am pretty much done by 5 or 6 p.m., at which time I prepare dinner.

Weekends, I try to clean up the disarray of my constant presence at the keyboard and loathing of housecleaning.   I’d like to add chair sitting to the repertoire — hence today’s resolution.

Lord knows the house is a flipping mess, but the weather is supposed to be glorious today, and I am resolved to begin the front yard project.  I have high hopes.

benchI need to tame the weeds and free the rose bush, paint the Adirondack chair blue, and install the new bench my Best Daughter-in-Law in the Whole World provided for Mother’s Day..  I have 10 or so packages of mulch that have been stacked by the fence for a couple of years awaiting spreading.  While I may not paint today, I do hope to get the mulch down.  If I get that far, I will hang the nifty Kinsey sign and address stake.  Woo Hoo.  We’ll be high falutin’ then.

I also have plans to see my Sweet Baboo tonight.  We haven’t been in the same room since February, and I miss him muchly.   We’ve agreed that we’ve both socially isolated enough that neither is likely to be infected and we can get together.  Hoo boy, I’m excited.  I’m going to put on makeup and everything.  It’s almost like a real date even if we’re just gonna hang out at his house.

This is my exciting life.  It’s my life, and I love it.  I worked hard to achieve this sense of contentment and satisfaction.

 

 

 

Writing Retreat at Hindman Settlement School

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This weekend I went to my first writing retreat ever.  I’m an addict now!   The retreat was held at the Hindman Settlement School in Hindman, Kentucky.  I met a fellow writing group member and a Facebook friend there.  I’m not adverse to walking into groups where I know no one but it was nice to have a friends in attendance.

If you write and if you have never been to a retreat, you owe it to yourself.  I am renewed, reinvigorated and re-examining my writing life.

I have a million reasons not to write.  It’s time for that to come to an end.  I enjoy it.  I possess some talent and it’s a crime that I’m not doing what I want to do for all sorts of nonsensical reasons.  So here I am.  Blogging.  Get used to it.

The retreat was led by Dana Wildsmith who can be found here.   We had read-arounds and group discussions followed by a one-on-one with Dana.  She worked with me on my one and only poem that I’ve written as an adult.  (That dreck one writes as a teenager doesn’t count.)

I wrote this poem at last year’s Allegheny Echoes.   Allegheny Echoes is a fabulous event focused on old-time music but also offering a writing track.  Kirk Judd led it and insisted I could write a poem.  And I did.  But I don’t have the tools to evaluate it, so Dana’s help with shaping and clarifying it was invaluable.

The retreat, for me, was the proverbial kick in the pants that I’ve needed for a long time.  Not only am I motivated to write, but I am motivated to garden.  These two things I’ve struggled with for the past several years.  I don’t know if it was part of the grieving process for me to not garden and to not write, or what, but I haven’t been.  Both activities are ones that caused my very soul to sing and I’ve been mystified as to why I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do them.

The magnolia in the photo was taken at the Hindman Settlement School.  The grounds were nicely landscaped and I wandered around one afternoon with a camera, but didn’t take too many pictures.  I was busy writing.  As it should be.

I’m back!

The Year Without a Spring

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a lot of workLenora Swann felt a great wave of sadness while in the midst of the downward dog asana. She tried to breathe through the stretch while straightening her legs and arching her back, but the sadness threatened to overwhelm her balance.

She strengthened her resolve with self-talk and successfully walked her hands up to her feet, wrapped the fingers of each hand around its respective ankle and brought her nose to her knees. The burn in the back of her thighs was intense yet satisfying.

She straightened up, brought her hands into position and silently said Namaste to her reflection in the mirror. With that, her yoga was done for the day.

The sadness persisted, however.

The rain wasn’t helping. Today, it was freezing rain and chilling winds. Tomorrow would be 85F and humid. It was the year without a spring.

Lenora sighed and embraced the sadness while hugging herself.

Lenora delighted in spring. That season in Appalachia was almost unbearable in its sweetness and beauty. The sky would be a crystalline blue, the greens magnificent in their intensity, and the daffodils, Lord the daffodils, could make one weep with their joie de vivre.

Yes, the daffodils bloomed at the appropriate time on the calendar. And the rains provoked the greening. But without the blue sky and mild temperature, the beauty of it all was subdued. The rain beat the peonies to the ground and the humidity wilted the green leaves.

Her feelings were similar to those of an unrequited love affair. She simultaneously hoped for mild zephyrs and brilliant sun while mourning their absence. To hope, to mourn. The sadness threatened to overcome her.

Lenora fought against the tears and braved the chilling rain to cut irises to put in a vase. With disgust, she picked a snail off the bright yellow bloom and wielded her shears to cut more. She would fill the house with blooms. She vowed to beat the sadness.

There was green. There were flowers. The scent of the peonies was no less intense for the weather.

She moved through the garden like a human combine. Peonies, irises, roses and mock orange. Ferns, Lily-of-the-Valley. She would requite the love affair through her own efforts. If spring couldn’t be bothered, she could.

The cut glass vase an old lover had given her was quickly filled. Lenora pulled more vases from underneath the sink. Yes, she would fill the house with the colors and scents of spring. While the weather outside belied the calendar, it was comfortable in her home.

Soon her jeans were soaked from the hem to her knees. Her hair was ropey from the freezing rain. Her shoes muddy. She was cold and shivering.

She did fill her home with flowers in each of the rooms. She took the teakettle off the stove and brewed hot, strong, sweet tea to sip from a flowered Wedgewood teacup. Another gift, but this one from an old friend who had since died.

She filled the old clawfoot tub, took off her clothes, turned off the lights, lit a candle and slid into the warm bath. She listened to the rain on the old tin roof.

The candlelight lit the white petals of the fragrant peonies and Lenora’s spirit soared.

It was going to be okay. It was. She stood in the tub, turned and positioned herself in Namaste and bowed to the flowers. She whispered, “The spirit in me bows to the spirit in you.”

The year without a spring couldn’t kill the hope in Lenora’s heart. The year without a spring taught Lenora the power of resiliency. The year without a spring provoked Lenora to bloom and create beauty out of the mundane routines of a cold, rainy day.

Lenora, wrapped in her robe, wandered through her home visiting the flowers. She felt a quiet joy that replaced the sadness. Lenora, once again, was enjoying the season.