Category Archives: Flowers

“I love tulips better than any other spring flower; they are the embodiment of alert cheerfulness and tidy grace, and next to a hyacinth look like a wholesome, freshly tubbed young girl beside a stout lady whose every movement weighs down the air with patchouli. Their faint, delicate scent is refinement itself; and is there anything in the world more charming than the sprightly way they hold up their little faces to the sun. I have heard them called bold and flaunting, but to me they seem modest grace itself, only always on the alert to enjoy life as much as they can and not be afraid of looking the sun or anything else above them in the face.” ~ Elizabeth von Arnim

My heart leapt for joy when I saw the first bucket of jonquils appear at the market a few days ago, a signal that we are on indeed on the road to spring. Already, more winter has passed than we have yet to traverse. That is a very lovely thought. Almost as lovely as these cheery flowers, with their delicate scent that is barely perceptible, lending something even more wonderfully elusive to their appeal. 

After everything that has happened over the past year, I hesitate to get too many hopes up, but the sight of these pretty little things has cheered me, so I’m going to indulge in some gratitude and appreciation of their gentle beauty. 

Sometimes the best bouquets are simple ones. 

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.” ~ Virginia Woolf

What a luxury to have flowers at the veritable height of winter! Troubled by modern-day worries, I haven’t been sleeping as well these past few weeks, which means I’ve been waking at 4 or 5 in the morning and not getting back to sleep. On this particular morning I popped up around 5 AM, and since I didn’t have to start work until 8, I made a quick trip to the grocery store for these flowers and some groceries for the week.

What a difference a simple bouquet makes, and I’m reminded that this was something I was going to implement regularly for this winter. It’s never too late, so here we have beauty and color and fragrance. They are the first thing to greet us when we walk out of the bedroom, and they help start the day in happy fashion.

“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.” ~ Virginia Woolf

This trio of tulips called me back to memories I’ve held since childhood, and some more recent recollections that involved the happy flower…

Tulipmania.

Tulip titillation.

Tulip sunshine.

Tulip perfume.

Tulip curves.

Tulip beds.

Tulip portals.

Tulipa.

Once upon a time, the orchid was an exquisite rarity only shown by the most ostentatious home-owners and specialty botanical enthusiasts. We’ve come a long way since those early days of orchid culture, as now there are orchids at every turn – home improvement centers, supermarkets, and of course all the nurseries and greenhouses. More than that, they are all pretty affordable and easy to care for – at least the common ones – and even the common ones are exquisite. 

For some reason, I’ve largely ignored them, but the more I think of it, the more I wonder why. For the price of a typical floral arrangement, I could have been purchasing an orchid, which would last weeks beyond that bouquet. Not that we need any more plants, but the next time I have a hankering for some floral cheer, this may be a new-old option. Besides, they seem to be a background pre-requisite for all Zoom meetings. 

They signal the impending spring, and though it be a bit of a ways off, we are chomping at the bit. Stick a sugar stick in me or toss me a carrot because I am raring to be done with winter. As much as I’ve made motions to embrace and accept it, the heart still longs for spring and sun and warm weather. This week has chilled us to the bone.

These happy little primroses reminded me that we are headed in that direction, and I always thrill at seeing them and the spring bulb flowers in the markets starting at this time of the year. The hyacinths – forced in their single-bulb vases – and tulips brighten the days with their colorful petals as much as their sweet fragrance. Soon the jonquils wrapped tightly in bud in tens and twenties will add the brightest yellow to the scene, along with their delicate scent. 

For now, these primroses will carry us to the end of January, and then a full month of winter will have gone by. Baby steps, perhaps, but every journey has its slow start. Let’s make this one a pretty one. 

A little floral waterfall spills over its wooden shelf in the local greenhouse. Faddegon’s is still my go-to escape when there is nowhere else providing such a green balm, and this little specimen caught my eye in its quiet corner. We’re just about out of room for plants, so I wasn’t in the market for any new acquisitions. Instead, I appreciate its beauty in that moment, soaking in the atmosphere and the induced peace, capturing the feeling of the experience, making a mental image, and taking a phone photo as insurance. It’s also to share with you on a Friday afternoon. This is how we exchange experiences when we can’t do it in person. There is distance between us – time too – yet somehow I hope the sentiment gets through, and that it’s more than just a faded echo of emotion. 

The first month of winter comes to its conclusion in sunny, happy fashion. There is a frigid bite in the air, and temperatures are due to descend even more, but these little narcissus blooms brightened the local greenhouse, reminding me that we are headed in the right direction. Along with hyacinths and tulips, the blooms that are just starting to appear will lead us directly to another spring, which will arrive no matter how many storms or difficulties arise along the way. And so I shall indulge in their beauty and fragrance, holding onto the sneak-peek of spring just a little tighter than I have in previous years. 

Maybe it’s a little premature, but this year we need it sooner rather than later. Besides, this is a week I’m choosing to focus on hope and possibility, leaving the pathos and darkness to which we’ve become accustomed swirl away down the proverbial drain. Soon enough, the snow will melt away. The earth will heave and begin to shake off the winter. Spring will come again, it always does. It always will. 

It’s taken me a while, but I’ve finally come around to enjoying tone-on-tone flower bouquets more than the riotous mix of eye-popping super-saturated combustions of colorful petals I once admire. This bouquet of purple shades was made for my Mom’s birthday. I employed the trendy practice of grouping and clumping like flowers together, instead of distributing them evenly like every other florist in the world. This new style suits me, as much for its visual interest as for its ease. It also featured irises, one of my Mom’s favorite flowers, so it worked well fir celebrating her birthday week. (We’re giving her a whole week since in times of COVID we can’t do a big gathering or celebration.)

My favorite element was the steel-blue Eryngium, a variety of which I tried to grow in our soil, but which never took off. We even had a sandy-enough patch of soil, or so I thought, but this one didn’t last a season. I wish it did better, because the architectural form of leaves and flowers is stunning, as is its rare bluish hue. 

The iris is the focal point of the scene, thanks in part to the canary tongues at the heart of each bloom – a bright spot of sunny cheer that sets off the cooler shades of the bulk of the bouquet. 

Lending some staying power – and should Mom choose she can save these for the rest of the winter – is the standard statice, which used to be more ubiquitous, a la baby’s breath, in typical rose bouquets. I haven’t seen it as much lately, and I much prefer it in this style, when its violet color adds to the overall effect instead of accenting or detracting. 

As for Mom’s birthday, we also dropped off a cake that Andy made – in French vanilla and raspberry – which is a sweet bouquet of its own. Happy birthday again, Mom! 

Scientifically monikered Hippeastrum papilio, this beauty is more commonly referred to as the Butterfly Amaryllis. Native to the rainforest of South America, it was largely believed to be endangered, a status which endures if you consider its home in its native habitat. Fortunately, it has performed and been propagated quite well as a cultivated specimen, so you can find it readily from most larger garden suppliers.

I first came across it in the late 80’s, when the Park Seed Company offered it with all the South American rainforest hyperbole of its scarcity and exotic good looks. The literature made it sound like an explorer had plucked it out of obscurity on some grand expedition – and who knows, maybe that’s how it all went down. It makes for a perfectly wondrous tale of how a perfume is created, only in this instance the beauty of the butterfly amaryllis is unfortunately unaccompanied by a fragrance of any kind, at least none detectable by the human nose.

That is so often the trade off in these fairy tales. Beauty or fragrance, and never the twain shall meet. Most of the orchids we find in local greenhouses are without scent or perfume, and such hot-house visions offer glory only to the eyes. In this instance, that’s more than enough.

Each petal alone offers a painting unto itself. Assembled in the orchid-like form of the flowers, it makes for an even more spectacular display. Handsome strap-like foliage rises like a fountain before spilling over, seeking the bright light of its original home, and forming a fresh green frame for the magnificent flowers. With throats of cream and lime green setting off the scarlet brush strokes, its origin story of having been mistaken for exotic orchid is understandable. At the base of it, however, is the typical amaryllis bulb, which prefers to be planted with at least a third of it above the soil line to prevent rot. These bulbs also love being potpound, where they send out bulblets that surround the mother bulb, squeezing into whatever space is available. It makes sense, given their natural propensity to nestle in among the trees of the rainforest.

These can be grown all year long, as their leaves don’t die back, and coaxed into bloom again if you give them a brief rest, followed by a summer outside, and some regular fertilizing. I’ve only had success doing this once before, and for me it wasn’t worth the drudgery. So we enjoy the blooms like a typical amaryllis – a post-holiday spirit-booster, so desperately needed – made all the more splendiferous for its brevity.

“A rose does not answer its enemies with words, but with beauty.” ~ Matshona Dhliwayo

At the turn of the calendar year, and for some weeks thereafter, I usually find myself obsessing about roses. Their perfume, their petals, their potency, even their thorns – and I see now that it’s a direct response to the idea of winter settling in and taking up residence for the next few months. It’s my way of bringing a sliver of summer and sunlight into the unbreakable season of slumber. Tellingly, it is the fragrance of the rose that touches me most – bringing back childhood memories of the rose garden across the street, and later of roses I grew in my own garden, and finally the roses that Andy was growing when I first met him. All are happy recollections, all drenched in summer and sun.

Most recently, a rustic Rosa rugosa has made its home poolside – it’s entanglement of impossibly-thorny stems made nearable by its exquisite fragrance – as much a sign of summer as of the sea, where these beach roses make their most famous home. It brings to mind vacations in Ogunquit and Cape Cod, seashore romps where dried seaweed mingle with sea grass, and these roses are one of the few plants that manages to bloom in the harsh salty environs.

“As delicate as flower, as tender as rose petals, choosing to be tender and kind in a harsh environment is not weakness, it’s courage.” ~ Luffina Lourduraj

For all these reasons, I find comfort in the fragrance of a rose. Oddly enough, I don’t employ many rose frags in summer. Only the real thing will do then. Synthetic approximations and essential oil concoctions are all too heavy for the lighter seasons, but in winter they call to me, as they are doing once again. This is the time of the year when we so ache for something like a rose, even a facsimile will suffice.

There are some glorious imposters out there, and the Houses of Tom Ford and Frederic Malle each have a couple of rose fragrances to see us through the dimmer days and darker nights. Each is wonderfully distinctive to the palette, woefully so to the wallet, and I’m left wanting a new one for day and night. Stay tuned to see where the quest currently rests…

“A rose does not lose sleep because it was mocked by weeds.” ~ Matshona Dhliwayo

Against the windowpanes looking out onto a snowy scene, a potted cyclamen glows warmly pink with its sinuous blooms and soft dark green foliage. It makes a simple yet stunning show with the backdrop of blue dusk lending its winter chill. Such a juxtaposition gives the scene an added coziness, the way a cooler bedroom at night makes sleep beneath a warm blanket that much more pleasurable.  

There’s also something comforting about a greenhouse beauty recalling the warmer days of late summer when cyclamen typically bloom in the wild, bringing that verdant gorgeousness inside when the earth has been cold and barren for several months, and will be for several more. 

Soon enough, the glow of Christmas will wear off, and the long trudge of winter will continue with the bleak gray and brown earth peeking through the snow whenever weather allows. Little scenes like this stave off the coldness of the outside world. They may be transient, they may be temporary, but the emotional sustenance they provide lasts beyond their prettiness. 

Is a rose more precious in November than it is in June?

I would posit that it is. 

Scarcity and rarity lends everything a different kind of enchantment. 

At a time of the year when things are typically grey and brown, when the gardens have usually gone to bed already, the thrill of a rose in bloom is a thing of beauty indeed. It gives hope in the days when hope seems drained from the world.