new thoughts on peonies

I have written ad nauseum about peonies–so much so that I myself am beginning to tire of the subject. Yes, they do remain my favorite flowers, but… so what? You see, I have come to the conclusion in the past year that… well… Oprah was right.

For anyone who has not read every word I ever wrote, I remarked on the eve of 2008 that Oprah had a little blurb in her magazine about taking care of your own needs, buying your own flowers. I mocked this idea, resolving that I would not give up on the idea of someone who would care for me. How wrong I was.

Now, I was never quite so helpless as to think I could not dream my own dreams; I just wanted to be pampered, quite notably, by someone else. There is a poem or quote about the whole notion of growing our own flowers. I cannot quite remember it off the top of my head, and I am too lazy just now to Google. The idea is that we women–I say women, though it really could be any of us out here–tend to wait around for whatever is tossed at us in life, pawing at whatever happiness gets thrown our way, when we really could take a little more responsibility in the outcome: how much much more fulfilling it might all be if we only speak up. Or if we plant our own gardens.

I was late and lazy this fall, so I did not set out peonies in my yard, but there may be hope for the spring. Yes, this is a new year on its way, and I resolve to cease this hoping and hinting for the heartfelt gift of cut flowers that I forever (sniff) wished that some wonderful someone would ever have the heart to give to me. All those wishes have seemed a recipe for disappointment, or worse: martyrdom.

Now, those of you who did read that peony piece for 2007’s December 31 will undoubtedly note that flowers were never really my main concern. Better than I could express, Kathleen Edwards sings, in “Asking For Flowers” the thought that I have considered in past years: “Asking for flowers/is like asking you to be nice.” Thoughtfulness is a gift we cannot ask for. We are never asking for niceness or flowers, not really; we are asking, in fact, for nothing material at all. We are not asking, we are wishing for someone who loves, respects and cherishes us as we all deserve… indeed, it may be worth wishing for.

In the past year, though, I have wondered how far we get in wishing for anything. A wish may plant a goal in our head, but wishes left in dreams accomplish little, I am sure. And goals themselves can even be a bit too specific, striving to have a certain job, or to win the affections of an certain person. I don’t imagine it does any more good in the long run to “wear your hair just for him” than it does to spend time “wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’.” Remember Vertigo? A lot of good a hairstyle did that time. But I digress.

In the end, all the trite advice about finding our own happiness seems to make sense to me now, not such a lonely resignation, after all. I wonder at the trials of the last year, what changed that made me reconsider my long-held conviction in refusing to “give up” my wishes for true love. It was not disappointment, quite; more, it has been the realization that finding a life that fits me is no match for making a life for myself.

Searching for happiness is a strange pursuit. Instead, I make this resolution for the year: I will slow down this year, and just stop sometimes. I will find whatever bliss comes along the way, collect it and care for it. I will live on, despite the sorrows that wash up, let them wash back out.. even as tears transform the appearance of what I thought I knew so well. I will write the words, the gifts, and create beyond my present dreams. And maybe, just maybe, this creation will prove itself to be the deepest sort of love I could honor.

P.S. In this last note for the year, I send my best wishes and farewells to friends who have moved on in their lives. To everyone, I wish you peace in 2009.

silver bells

Christmas time.

The glimmering season has beckoned for so long, it seems, the number twenty-five shining above with all the promises of redemption and salvation waiting for us to unwrap and behold.

And I write this on the Sunday after a Thursday holiday. Shoppers have rushed about with enough treasures, the perfect gift awaiting before–then, returns: second chances at fulfillment, or not. Carols have ceased to echo on the 24-hour Christmas radio station and in the malls. On this day, life continues as it had, with whatever we have to hold onto from the day… or simply a relief that it has finally come to pass.

It is a warm night, rainy and dark. Dark at last. Stores with lights out after six. Peace. And at last, perhaps, the quiet sound of contentment, ringing softly.

snowflakes

Could they be more magnificent, really?

I thought the weather worthy of an entire snow day here, even if the schools and my work did not, and even if the snow never started until afternoon. In the morning, we took out scissors and paper and cut all varieties of snowflakes, and they now hang from ceilings and on windows.

It finally did snow, of course. Normally, winter is not welcome around my house. This would not be evident to anyone who perused the list of places I have lived; they are not the warmer locales I swore I would inhabit in my adult life. I have found myself drawn by people, occupations in the colder regions, so here I am. And despite the grumbling we all seem to do, once in a while nature dumps a beauty.

True enough, the wind outside is fierce now. Walking downtown with the snow blowing in my face, I watched the plows redefine the tundra. A woman asked me for a light. I didn’t have one, but we both noted our outings on such a rare night. Walks shoveled earlier in vain, all efforts now are covered by drifts. Still, it is lovely, the low sky with the street lights bouncing off it.

Inside, I love feeling how cold I really am. I love the yellow light drawing me into the warmth. The snowflakes are still on the windows, hanging, and a snowman stands in the yard, growing shorter all the time.

Before the snow, I frantically dashed out to the store for sidewalk salt. Oh, it was a foolish thing, going out there with everyone else. I expected the crabby rush, but instead found smiles and laughing. No, not from kids: from adults playing hooky for an early weekend or an excuse to stay home before holidays, perhaps, or maybe just a kid-like excitement, knowing that tomorrow there is no school.

There may be plenty of snowflakes on windows by now, cookies baking, snowmen and glowing faces, like a song. The songs in this season hope for so much, though, and so much seems so far away for so many this time of year, as memories and wishes defy the ideal.

A friend suggests that we were meant to greet winter quietly, drawing in and seeking comfort. This year, winter wins. We are inside, stalled, grounded, and that seems just right. Snowflakes cover the season and make it something new, something unexpected, something utterly, unavoidably here, undeniably ours.