Walking I am listening to a deeper
way.
Suddenly all of my ancestors are
behind me.
Be still, they say. Watch and
listen.
You are the result of the love of
thousands.
Native American Writer Linda
Hogan
Shopping,
I was listening to a deeper way.
Trapped
in the 15 Items or Less line, I watch
Frazzled Mom shuffle through a thick packet of coupons as she attempts to
manage two feisty toddlers, a shopping cart, and Stinky Baby in Stroller. I channel my Inner Calm.
Which
is ridiculous, dear Reader.
Because
if the gift of Inner Calm exists, I never received it.
I
did, however, receive the gift of Insightfulness, which means I'm aware that my
expression and demeanor can shift at any second from pleasant to, uh, not so
pleasant.
I
might offer to help Frantic Mom in a way that sounds more snarky than gracious:
Would you like me to sort through half
that stack of coupons while you sort through the other half?
Or
ask a simple question that could be misinterpreted: Is there a Pampers coupon in that stack?
Instead,
I shut up and reach for a magazine, determined not to begin finger drumming
impatiently on the gallon of milk I need to purchase.
Once
upon a time I was Frazzled Mom (minus the coupons, plus another kid) but now I
am Mom of Teens - closer in age to Grammy with Grandkids than Momma with Toddlers. Mellowed, I am much less likely to mutter
under my breath, sigh impatiently, or roll my eyes in grocery store check-out
lines (still working on highways and baseball diamonds.)
I'm
more likely to wait it out. Much
more likely to check for an escape hatch behind me.
Grabbing
my gallon of milk, I turn to sneak out of 15
Items or Less line, only to discover that I am being blocked by Old Guy.
Make
that Really Old Guy.
Grizzled, grungy, he stands quietly behind me,
holding a cane in one hand and a bouquet of tulips in the other. The vibrant pink
flowers and green stems are such a startling contrast to the grayness of the
man's hair, skin, jacket, shoes, I almost gasp when I look at him.
Really
Old Guy knows I want to bolt. An expression in his wise brown eyes tells me to
stay put.
I
am Insightful. And Observant. I know defeat when it's staring at me.
In
a split second I decide that chatting up Really Old Guy might make me forget Stinky Baby in Stroller. Win -win.
"What
beautiful flowers," I say.
The
man nods. "I wanted to get pink roses," he says. "They're my
favorite to buy for her."
I
glance past the checkout to tables covered with pots, vases, and containers stuffed
with flowers. Hydrangeas. Orchids. Tulips. Daisies. Roses in every color fill their very own table.
"Sir,
they sell pink roses here. Do you want
me to grab you a bunch?"
Those brown eyes look suddenly wistful. "No, no," he says. "Every payday I used to bring home a dozen pink roses. Perfect
flowers for the perfect girl."
That's
it. End of sentence. Then a mighty PAUSE.
I
ask you, dear Reader, if you're in that grocery store line, how do you respond at
such a moment?
Ask
Really Old Guy why he stopped buying roses? Ask him what happened to the
perfect girl?
Ask
me why I'm such a busy-body? (Answer: It's the story. It's always the story.)
Realizing
that any follow-up question might result in change of topic from flowers to divorce, unemployment,
or death, I know I must punt. Let the
obvious question - and the story - go.
"Well,
someone will be very lucky to receive those gorgeous tulips," I say.
"I
buy her these so she won't get mad at me," Really Old Guy tells me. "She
told me decades ago to stop spending hard-earned money on roses every week because pretty as they were for a few days, they'd
soon shrivel and die. She said it was money wasted. Wasn't money to me. Was words."
"Words?"
I ask.
"Those
roses said what I thought, " he answered.
In
that instant, all grocery store annoyance, bustle, stench, and noise disappeared. I could only see and smell countless bouquets
of roses delivered to me for birthdays, anniversaries, Mom's Day, Valentine's Day, Any Old
Day.
I
had always loved the beauty and sentiment of those flowers when Husband gifted
them. But, like Really Old Guy's perfect girl, I often thought they were too extravagant. Because
in a few days, those flowers would shrivel and die. And we could have spent all that cash on diapers
or dinner, sneakers or school supplies.
A
writer by trade, I had never considered that those roses were words.
This
spring day, trapped in the 15 Items or
Less line, I listened to a deeper
way.
Really
Old Guy behind me, reminding me to Be still. Watch and listen.
Wise
Ancestor holding a dozen pink tulips that cautioned, "Accept and embrace love,
in whatever color, form or shape it is given."
Lilies
of the valley pulled from the dirt by chubby fingers. Bouquets selected by best
friends. Roses delivered with a kiss.
I've
gratefully - and sometimes not gratefully enough- received them all.
From now on, I'll remember that flowers speak.
Gifted and accepted throughout a lifetime they actually roar: You've been blessed
with the love of thousands.
QUING HEREBY DECREES: Your story enlightens mine. Tell me.
These gorgeous flowers from beloved friends have lasted long after a birthday passed. Happy Spring!
