I took a walk through the garden centre today -- or rather, I took another walk through the garden centre today. Garden centre walks have always been one of my favorite centering activities -- there is something about the smell of fresh earth, greenery, and the visual explosion of colours that is so soothing to my soul.
Our spring in here the Rockies has been long in coming. Most of the month of May we were met with either unseasonable cold and snow or prolonged rain, and only now are many of our trees blooming and leafing out. It seems an appropriate metaphor for my heart. I have often asked these past few months, "Will the sun ever shine again?" Last weekend we had what appeared to be a break in the gloomy weather, so I tried to plant all the tender annuals I had purchased two weeks prior. A few moments into that attempt, a freak storm blew in and it hailed profusely. I scrambled desparately, feeling the pings of hail on my hands, back and head, trying to bring my plants back inside to save the fledgling new life I was hoping to brighten my yard and my heart. What's that old expression? "One step forward, two steps back..."
While I meandered and browsed this afternoon, I did my usual dreaming about what kind of edenesque oasis I would create in my own yard had I unlimited resources. However, there was also a lump in my throat as I walked today. Walking amongst the myriad of plants was yet another reminder that this spring, this year, is different. While I will be planting my garden here on earth, my sister won't.
Caroline was an incredible gardener. No matter where she lived, she always turned every inch of deck (if in a small apartment); yard (if in a house); or acreage, as in her last home before heaven, into a flowering and fruiting wonderland. She used to teach me things when she would visit in the summer. "Caroline, why are my strawberries dying?" I would ask her, and she would offer her seasoned wisdom. "I think this mulch is too heavy and choking them off. You need something lighter, like grass clippings." I always aspired to know as much about plants as she did. I feel like a complete novice compared to her. Two summers ago, we went on a walk through the forest and she taught me all about this plant and that berry; how you can make syrup out of spruce tips; how you can use yarrow as a balm. She was just entering into a new passion of holistic medicine and was making her own balms and tinctures. It was such a strange feeling today; walking amongst the plants and imagining which ones she would add to her garden. My heart ached; I miss her.
Earlier this spring, my daughter and I were talking about how we might like to plant something in our garden in Caroline's honour. I originally thought Raspberry Canes, as her raspberry jam was my absolute favorite. But she instead suggested Bleeding Hearts as they're so pretty, but also symbolic. Our hearts are broken in this time of grief, but there is also beauty amidst the pain. There is the promise of an eternal spring. This winter was long and hard for our family. It has felt sometimes as if the metaphorical snow and rain would never end, and sometimes still does.
But God has designed nature to be a reminder of life and death; or rather death and life. No matter how long and cold the winter is or how hard the rains fall, there is ALWAYS the promise of spring; of new life; and of beauty -- even if the spring tarries for longer than we would hope.
I will plant the Bleeding Hearts in my garden, and every time I look at them I will think of Caroline -- and remind myself that one day, the oft quoted words will ring true for eternity:
"For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come." Song of Solomon 2:11-12
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Author's Note: while the last posts have been about grief, I will be writing about more varying topics in the blogs ahead!
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