hnt, the floral edition

The peonies (the self-bought version, alas) were full, round buds when I went to bed last night. They smelled good, but you never know how supermarket flowers are going to fare. The birthday bunch was none too satisfying, but I am never one to give up hope too easily. I stuck the buds in a vase and traipsed off to dreamland, exhausted at the prospect of the busy work day ahead.

This morning, lit by clear sunshine spilling through my dining room windows, the flowers were open: beautiful and naked.

And I caught them! Happy Thursday, everyone.

peonies

A couple of weeks ago, I was at Trader Joe’s to replenish our supply of milk, cereal, and honey-roasted peanuts, when I saw them peeking out between the bouquets of holly and pine branches, white roses, ivy, mistletoe, and poinsettias: peonies!—pale pink, tightly closed, and remarkably out of season.

I looked at the price, nine dollars, picked out the nicest bunch, and put them in my basket. It was a little splurge, just for me, something to brighten my home, which would be quiet for several days. I looked again at the bouquet. A few of the outer leaves were already brown and curled on the edges. The leaves were pretty tired looking.

I put the flowers back, and walked across the aisle to grab a box of Joe’s Os.

The New Year is upon us, and as we are all wont to do as December ends, I am pondering my existence and what I can do to make it—me—better. Many articles are published on this subject every year about this time, right next to the lists of famous people who have died, and the countdowns of top songs.

It must also be a big time for self-help book sales. You know those books you see—especially if you are a woman—that tell you about taking care of yourself and doing nice things just for you, because you are so overwhelmed by taking care of everyone else and really deserve to have a week in a spa, a personal shopper and a nice meal cooked by someone else?… Oprah often reminds us that self-pampering is nice, and one particular bit of advice I have tried taking from her from time to time is to stop waiting for a man to send me flowers and just buy them myself.

Well, after years of buying my own flowers, I have to say that this advice is crap.

Now, that is not the only reason that I put back the peonies at Trader Joe’s. In fact, I do love peonies, and I’ve grown them when I’ve had gardens. When I’m lucky, they bloom around my birthday, and then, I do buy them for myself. The screen in my bedroom has them all over, off-white, pink, even yellow, and most beautiful, deep red ones, signs of prosperity and good luck, love, healing. Some fairly convincing fake peonies sit stylishly in a long rectangular vase on the floor in my hall. Open my front door. There, at the bottom of the stairs—those are peonies, too. Sure, I would love to have real ones, and this time of year—what a treat that would be! But not like this.

Rarity does not equal beauty. And just because the supply goes down doesn’t mean my demand goes up. It just means that I wait for the right time, unless they are something truly special. Now, it may be true that these particular flowers would have released their perfume and charm when they opened, but it just didn’t seem likely. In fact, what I saw when I looked at them just made me sad: supermarket flowers to feed the commercial interests that mark the season. Not even a Chinese empress could force these flowers to bloom in winter. Why should I?

To every thing there is a season…

And then, there is the other factor… the part about Oprah’s questionable advice.

I do believe that waiting around for someone else to make your life for you is a really bad idea. Live, live for yourself, just live! Yes, I do believe that. I do, and I fill it with the things that mean a lot to me, and I do want to be better, and do more. But buying my own peonies?

Really, all those times I went ahead and filled my vases with beautiful flowers I bought for myself, I really did wish that I had someone to thank them for, someone, someone who knew me well enough to know the thing about the peonies, someone who cared enough to waste the money on something beautiful that is already dying, something fleeting, something frivolous, something totally and utterly impractical… for absolutely no reason at all. Buying peonies for myself just makes me wish I had not been the one to buy them, and wishing that does not make me feel pampered.

So, a garden I may grow, but I will no longer buy my own flowers. That is my resolution for this year. Telling myself that the flowers themselves are all I ever wanted… that just cannot be all there is to hope for. But dreams are not so bad, and I will not stop dreaming. That is my other resolution.

Ah, it is the end of this year, the beginning of new days, new dreams, new songs. To all of you, both the dreamers and you more practical and level-headed sorts, I wish you all the beautiful gifts of the year that follows.