BLOOM

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!