It’s spring again, miraculous spring. Every street in town is lined with flowering dogwood, crab, pear – everywhere, boughs are in riotous bloom. In my gardens, something new unfurls daily. The woods are awash with wildflowers, and all along the driveway, violets gem the grass…
For me each year, the first violets of spring bear on fragile stems the weight of perennial tenderness. I stoop down to hook a finger beneath a bowed purple head. As I study the contour of this familiar face, I’m amazed by the power one simple flower wields over my heart and mind…
From the time I was old enough to toddle off to woods’ edge, I kept my mother in fresh-picked wildflowers. The first bouquets I carried home to her each spring always included several long-stemmed wood violets. One year, when I was seven or eight, Momma sent me off to the woods on a special mission to select only the choicest violets. I returned with dozens of flawless specimens. Together, we washed the flowers, a delicate task. We shook them gently dry and arranged them on clean white dish towels, taking care not to bend or bruise any petals. We snipped blossoms from stems. Then, after using tiny brushes to paint the flowers with a wash of egg whites and water, we sprinkled each one with a shower of sugar crystals.
Later, the house filled with the aroma of angel food cake pulled fresh from the oven. When it cooled, Momma frosted it with a white sugar glaze into which she pressed a pattern of sweet sugared violets. It was simply a vision, that cake, and young though I was, I was limp with the romance of a cake covered in violets…. (Alas, no photos were snapped of that eye-popping confection, but in my heart’s album, it glistens on a page all its own.)
Twenty years of violets bloomed and faded…
Then came a day like no other, a day I could never have imagined when I was a child wandering among the wildflowers – the day I held a newborn flower in my arms, a blossom fresh-plucked from heaven: our first child, our sweet Margaret, a precious baby girl newly home from the hospital, bathed and swaddled and dressed in a long white hand-smocked gown Momma had made for her. Margaret was just a day or two old when I looked from her face into Momma’s eyes and said, “I so look forward to all her firsts – her first smile, her first words, her first steps…”
My gentle mother had more poetic firsts in mind for her granddaughter. She said softly, so softly I barely could hear, “Imagine showing Margaret her first violet, her first star. . .” Momma looked at me, yet somehow right through me as the words fell from her lips. For a heartbeat or two, time stood still for me, just as it does when I chance to read a line of perfect poetry: the words ring and resonate – beautiful, mysterious, fleeting, bells in the wind…
When the snows of winter melted away to reveal Margaret’s first spring, I showed her her first violet with deep emotion. I showed her her first star. Sang her every beautiful song I knew, read her every good book I could find, pointed her toward every lovely thing I could think of, filled her days with as much beauty and poetry and joy and mystery as I could – love gathered softly to place in her hands, like the wildflowers I carried to Momma so many years ago…
As Mother’s Day nears, I have asked myself, what does it mean to mother another soul, to nurture another life? I believe it is to pluck from one’s surroundings the good things, the beautiful, the eternal, the true, and place them in another heart, like a bouquet of violets.
I can hardly type through my joyous tears. While I always enjoy your writings, this is a stunner. Maybe it’s the connection to mothers and nurturing. But definitely good-heart and beauty ring out and touch me.
Thank you so very much for sharing your stories and thoughts of “the good, beautiful, eternal and true.”
Nancy, I love that mothers and nurturing, good-heartedness and beauty ring out and touch you. These are among life’s greatest treasures… Thank you for this lovely note. Blessings and love to you~ xoxo
So touched by your words this morning, Amy. You capture the very soul of mothering.
Bless you, precious friend, and thank you… Happiest of Mother’s Days to beautiful you. xoxo
breathtakingly magnificent. utterly, perfectly, heaven-sent. you make me want to start my mothering all over again, to be sure i live up to this prescription, this call to the heart:
“I believe it is to pluck from one’s surroundings the good things, the beautiful, the eternal, the true, and place them in another heart, like a bouquet of violets.”
bless the mama whose poetry spilled from her heart into yours, and you, in turn, spill into all of ours…..
Like my sweet Momma, you, too, are heaven-sent. Mother’s Day blessings to you, my dear friend. xoxo
Happy Mother’s Day my friend!
“to read a line of perfect poetry”: YOUR words ring and resonate- beautiful, mysterious, fleeting, bells in the wind…
Happy Mother’s Day, sweetest Ellen, and thank you… xoxox
My, oh my, dear Amy. So touchingly beautiful…you have your mother’s open and seeking spirit. xo
Thank you, Nancy. She is my muse, and her spirit is very much alive… Mother’s Day love to you~ xoxo
Shedding a few tears, my dear friend. I hope — with all my heart — that I filled my two precious child-hearts with enough violets to see them through… xoxoxo
Lynn, knowing your beautiful heart as I do, I am certain you did! And do, every day. Much love to you, dear friend across the sea. ❤️ xxxooo