Category Archives: Flowers

It was one of the first arresting fragrances I remember. In the hot entryway of Suzie’s Victorian home, a bouquet of mockorange blooms stood unobtrusively on the shelf that housed the Guest Book that I never failed to sign (I think I held the record for most signatures in that book – at the very least, I’m a strong contender – and I’m adding to it every few months.) On the day recalled here, the book was beside that vase of flowers which filled the space with the sweet scent of summer – the mockorange. Commonly named from its fragrant approximation of the sweet citrus blossom, it came at the very start of summer, when the world was at its seasonal happiest. Here, tamed in a smaller space than the expansive side-yard of Suzie’s house, it released its potent perfume, and I all but swooned at such sweetness.

Certain flowers carry their power in their fragrance. Peonies, lilacs, certain roses, lavender – each packs its own olfactory punch, conjuring memories of childhood or summers long gone by. The mockorange is one of them. Unassuming and rather rustic in leaf and form – even the flowers are simple and white – it makes up for the lack of visual pizzazz with a scent that would blow more stunning show-offs out of their colorful orbit. I like an underdog that can surprise in such a manner. And I love a mockorange in bloom.

Decompression from vacation continues…

Working a new job continues…

But still I make the time…

to smell the lilacs.

They come but once a year.

The night was wet. It made things messier that way, but such was the state of the evening, and it was the only time I could do it. In matters of human-made holidays, nature is not obliged to oblige. I grabbed a large paper bag, a pair of scissors, and slipped out into the darkness. Pausing on the side porch, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the night. Beads of fallen rain glistened on the grass. The gate gave way easily, and I padded quietly onto the lawn. It was spongy beneath my feet. The road stretched to the left and right – I went left, up a slight incline. At the top of the little hill was the destination.

My shadow shortened then elongated as I passed a street lamp. If I was to be seen, this would be where it happened. As far as I could tell, I moved on unspotted, and if anyone did witness me they weren’t doing anything about it. There was another street lamp near the top of the hill, but it wasn’t lit. That made is safer, but more difficult to locate the prize. No matter – I smelled them before I saw them. I knew they were there. They could not escape.

I circled them first, squinting and scanning which area might give the least resistance, which would afford the easiest access, and when I found a break I leapt up and entered. There, in the center of the group, I wielded my scissors. Drops of rain fell about me, stinging my head. The grass shuddered around us beneath the falling water. For a few moments, I broke the silence of the night.

As each branch gave way, I dropped the lilacs into the bag. They were for a bouquet for my Mom. When I made it back home, I shook them out, then smashed the stems before putting them in a vase of cool water. They would greet my mother in the kitchen the next morning, as a Sunday surprise for Mother’s Day. Worth all the wet trouble they were.

This season has taken so long to warm up, that the peonies here have barely broken ground. That may work to our advantage – they usually open on the days that we’re in Ogunquit for Memorial Day, so couple with an early holiday, and a late winter, we may be home for their amazing show. For now, however, a few links to the past must provide enough peony power for this special day.

Peony Parade 1

Peony Parade 2

Peony Parade 3

Peony Parade 4

The peony has always been one of my favorite flowers, from its association with childhood memories, to the memories it conjures of my wedding day. It is imbued with happy correlations, and the fragrance is one of those triggers that always warms the heart. Summer… family… happiness… love.

At the end of the sculpture garden, a conservatory. Coming as it did near the end of a blustery walk, perhaps it carried more relief than it otherwise would – though this sort of environment has always held special allure for those of us enamored of plants and flowers.

Rose-tainted bracts of Spathiphyllum, surrounding their phallic flowers, brought a sense of primal urgency to the proceedings, reminding of the sexual sub-layer that runs through all of life. A plaque offered up words of wisdom, ruminations, and an explanation for the enclosures at hand.

I admire when words and beauty collide. If there’s a single goal for this blog – for this entire website in fact – it’s that wondrous collision. The crux that obliterates all else ~ that moment of intersection between mind and heart. Whenever they meet, there is magic. Sometimes, being in a special place aids in the alchemy.

The gods have always lived in clearings, sacred groves, or green theaters enclosed by special walls. ~ Barbara Stauffacher Solomon

On this day, when the wind was whipping around and the earth was still gray and brown, this little enclosure of glass and green was like a hand upon the heart – a reassuring embrace that all would be well, that spring would again return, that there was still love and hope and beauty in the world.

Vital shades of green – from chartreuse to lime to silvery frost – clicked something in the head. The connection of memory to sun, of color to light, cleared the dusty shelves of spring.

Succulents are an easy group of plants to keep, provided you have the requisite sun. The trick to their cultivation is a steady and strict touch when it comes to watering. It’s best to err on the side of less-is-more. These are resilient plants, accustomed to the unreliable moisture of the desert. Most unsuccessful attempts at keeping them are due to poor lighting and over-watering. When in doubt, leave it out.

When happy, their leaves are plump with water, thick and bulbous and more than apt for their ‘succulent’ moniker. They are the embodiment of life. A defiance of the death so prevalent in the desert. An oasis in the barren and windy Minneapolis landscape.

While they are not known for their flashy flowers, their foliage occasionally comes in rosettes, the leaves forming their own sort of bloom.

If it’s flashy you want, look no further than the hibiscus. Boom. Flash. Sizzle.

Suddenly the day explodes. The walk to the Walker is almost complete…

Their color spoke to me first – the scarlets and salmons, the serpent-like tongues of yellow lapping toward the edges – and then the softest gentlest green of the silver-tinged leaves. They were the ultimate antidote to the longest winter. They pushed all thoughts of that season far away, clearing the way for summer. It was the only outcome. How happy that the tulip heralded such a direction.

Second was their fragrance. Nothing overpowering, nothing too cloying or sweet. In fact, nothing to write much about at all, but it was the scent of spring, the scent of pure joy. It was not something that Tom Ford would try to bottle, it was not going to multiply by waves of bath gel or body lotion, it was a subtle smell, with just the slightest bit of spice to work its trance-like effect.

Finally, there was their history. I love a flower with a tale to tell. Especially one as twisted and tumultuous as the tulip’s. People paid fortunes for a single tulip bulb. A bit of feverish supply-and-demand madness, a crippling inflation, and a blight or two along the way – and all in the name of a single beautiful bloom. The power of the flower.

Some beautiful things defy logic and reason. Some things cannot be priced or valued in any such hum-drum manner. How to monetize the sublime? And why would you bother?

The moment you sully something so pure is the moment it starts to deteriorate.

Such prettiness demands a lighter touch, an effortless brushing by the merest of breaths. It is meant to be inhaled, like the purest of perfume, in ethereal fashion, unfettered by clumsy hands or the clutch of a greedy child.

I didn’t always understand this. My hands picked them from the garden – to covet, to cherish, to hold close. They fought back with their pollen, committing suicide with their fallen petals, or simply expiring in a wilted, lamentable heap of decomposing tissue. I too fell prey to the tulip craze – and I’d do it all over again to come so close to beauty.

This miraculously fail-proof Phalaenopsis orchid, a wedding gift from 2010, resides at my parents’ house. Every few months since we received it, it sends up another small spray of blooms as seen here. A nice reminder of a happy time, and as beautiful now as it was then.