This is the time of hyacinth. The moment when the fresh green of new life pokes its eager leaves to an opening sun. This is also the time of mourning, for there are no early blooms for me. Not even potted plants. The only lavender that I attempted to salvage with a heart’s desire perished over winter.
So many things perished over winter.
That’s the nature of the going inward. Things fall away to make way for the new.
In the falling away places, that’s when all feels lost and forgotten. In the falling away, the foliage of once was becomes the decaying matter underfoot, a substance that can nurture and bring sustenance even in its demise.
I am reminded this is the time when I would be turning the leaves over. The compost of ground cover that neighbors frowned disapprovingly at made for some tender, supple earth to plant new seeds.
I am reminded of my daughter’s hands in the soil as we talked of lessons of boundaries and beauty. I am reminded of a safe haven where I transformed anger into a plot of opportunity.
Each year, the garden would take on a different shape.
This was how it started…
And this was the last form that I laid hands on.
This was the last form that I worked all of those years to finally reach.
I am full with gratitude for all of the lessons, even if that is no longer a place for learning in my life.
Become a PATREON PATRON and gain access to short stories, digital art downloads, and patron only snippets and updates for upcoming novels