April showers have long passed. May blossoms are a memory, and now with the waning June comes an abundance of blooms. As I dither as to what to plant next in my garden, my heart leans toward old-fashioned varietals. The kind of flowers that grace picket fences, stony barn foundations, and cottage walkways. Those with names that evoke romance, nostalgia, and mystery: coral bells and foxgloves, tiger lilies and morning glories, hollyhocks and violets. I fancy perennials that show up year after year, steadfast and loyal, and heirlooms with heady scents that lace the wind. Often, an inhale is followed by an exhale that melts the tension between my shoulders.
Such floras have stood the test of time and have imbedded within their fibers memories of days gone by and of people who have left this earthly existence. When I see the burgundy shoots of my grandmother’s peonies come up, sometimes even through the snow, I think of her hands that held so many cups of coffee and worked hard as a laundress. Lilacs remind me of springs growing up, my nose in a Louisa May Alcott book—Little Women, Little Men, and Under the Lilacs. Poppies get me thinking of Dorothy and her Oz friends falling asleep at the will and whim of a wicked witch.
The Victorians gave a lot of credence to flowers, communicating important messages using the language of flowers. What sprigs were in a nosegay or bouquet sent a message from the sender to the receiver. Sources vary as to exact translations, but blue cornflowers meant “be gentle with me,” daisies, “I love you truly,’ and a pink camelia said, “I’m longing for you.” Can you imagine having the time to hand-select and arrange flowers and then deliver them to a lover, a foe, a mother, in order to relay a specific and heartfelt note? I barely have time to text my husband with a bouquet emoji.
I guess I am a romantic, longing for days that appear, in my imagination, to be more languid, gentile, purposeful, and authentic. But perhaps, I simply like flowers because—unless you are a really bad person, who doesn’t?
And so, I will close with an easy to translate message in the language of one of my favorite flowers—those my grandfather planted years ago along the shoreline—forget-me-nots.
I will not forget you.
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This is such an enjoyable trip to your garden and landscapes of yore. I had a book once called, The Language of Flowers. I must dig that up.
Thank you, Heide
There’s a great novel with that title that came out about 10 years ago and I loved the read. There are also many dictionaries with that name that explain the meaning of all the flowers. It’s just all so romantic.
My favorite line… “an exhale that melts the tension between my shoulders”. Just reading it helped ease the tension in mine. Thank you!
Thank you, Tracy for supporting my work and getting it! It is so rewarding.
Nor will I forget YOU, Heide! Thanks for this fragrant blog.