The Tongue of Flowers: A Memoir

It was a patch of bare dirt. I wondered if I could turn it into something fresh and lovely.

Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went
Thro’ my garden bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.

— Alfred Lord Tennyson

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2017-2019 were unique years for me.

In 2017, we had arranged for unsightly shrubs to be removed from the spaces between our windows; as a result, the dirt was soft and freshly turned.

It looked, all of a sudden, empty—too empty for my artist’s eye.

It was a patch of bare dirt. I found myself wondering if I could coax something lovely from that dirt. And so, I went to Walmart and looked at the packages of seeds; I decided that I wanted to try a new hobby.

My experiment as a gardener lasted for two to three years. Unfortunately, I discovered that my allergies are severe in the spring. Each year, they became worse.

In spite of the short-lived nature of this hobby, I learned a great deal from it. All the same, I could not continue with it.

Going outside constantly to tend my garden meant my body never had a break. I was always sneezing, my eyes watering—but I wanted so badly to soldier on with my flowers…

By my third year as a gardener, the symptoms had begun to resemble literal asthma. Though it pained me to abandon my flowers, I had to admit defeat: my health was more important.

To make the situation worse, there were spiders that made it into the house.

I don’t care if they’re friendly or not venomous; they managed to get underneath the front door and climb on our furniture. These weren’t tiny spiders; they were huge.

I remember the sheer terror I felt when one of them climbed up the chair I was sitting on. I couldn’t speak. I could only point at the demon; my dad managed to dispose of it.

(The spider was so big that it even made him anxious; no, indeed. We could not have more of those in the house.)

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Before retiring as a gardener, I took some beautiful photos. My flowers attracted butterflies from all over the neighborhood; my garden was the place to be for them.

They would sit, patiently, fearlessly as I captured images of them enjoying the fruits of my labors: baby’s breath, bachelor buttons, marigolds, cosmos.

To this day, cosmos remain my favorite flowers. I might try planting a small patch of them this year, because I miss their colors.

As a writer, I spend most of my creative time indoors. It was a welcome change to step outside in the morning, looking at each flower-bud to see if it had opened yet, because I wanted to know what color it would be.

There is no comparison to the thrill I felt when a flower finally bloomed, revealing its color. Some were white, some pink; others were my favorite shade of lavender.

Planting and caring for a flower bed unlocked a vault of inspiration in me. I filled a journal with mostly outdoorsy poetry that year; I might dig it up and share a few pieces I wrote during that time.

I fancied that, as I worked with my hands to plant and water flowers, I was creating something beautiful with the help of God. After all, I might have planted the seeds, but He made the sun rise every day to coax the plants from the ground.

2019 was the year that my grandmother began to show signs of dementia. It was bitter to accept that her time with us was running out. There was not much that I could do for her—but I could make her smile.

I gathered small bouquets of my humble cosmos and marigolds. I placed them in vases and took them to her house, where I put my splash of color on her bedside table.

Grandma did not notice many things at that point, but she did notice my flowers. “They’re beautiful,” she said.

I knew I’d given her a unique gift—something surpassing the surprise of a flower-vase. I had gifted her with beauty during a time when she could seldom leave the house.

She probably hadn’t seen real-life flowers for months. I’d planted those seeds, waited patiently, watered them with love. Finally, I gave them to a woman who deserved them.

I gave her living beauty to look at.

The spiders remained a problem.

It was my fault: I had planted morning glory seeds, hoping to coax a vine up a dismal bit of fence located next to the house.

The vine grew, but only once did it ever produce flowers. They were purple.

I suspect this vine attracted the creatures that brought me such terror. After I stopped gardening, the vine died; the spiders then stopped coming.

Now we only get the occasional grasshopper. Those are friendly; I welcome them.

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I no longer have a bare patch of dirt in which to plant seeds. Grass spread and took root, and I can’t be bothered to remove it by myself.

If I tried gardening again, I would purchase large flower-pots.

I do miss flowers. I miss starting them indoors, watering them with love and placing them by the window. I miss the excitement of wondering what color each would be.

I miss sitting on my garden bench where I would write poetry, while butterflies flitted from bloom to bloom.

One time, a swallowtail butterfly crashed into my face. It was comical, for I shrieked. Looking up, I saw only a glimpse of the yellow winged visitor before she took off, gliding over the roofs of neighbors’ houses.

2019 was also the year that I visited Paris and London. Leaving my flower garden behind (the plants were settling for seasonal sleep, anyway), I boarded the plane that would take me to places I had only dreamed I’d be able to visit.

Paris and London also inspired poetry. I will write about those days, as well, the things I saw and adventures I had; however, at the end of it all, I feel more nostalgia for flower gardens.

The flowers were right outside the door, and they were mine; I decided what was to be planted, and I created a safe space for bees and butterflies (and, I suppose, spiders), to rest.

Even as I type this, my longing for a garden returns. My heart is chilled by fatigue, winter, and the hope for snow.

Perhaps I will plant flowers again this year, after all. Perhaps I will call butterflies to my yard once more, where they’ll have water, orange slices, and bananas to feast on.

There is magic in travel; there is a greater magic in creating beauty at home.