Morning Ritual

small whimsies for the day ahead

Hi there! My name is Deidre, and I write about theology, poetry, and the re-enchantment of life. If that’s your jam, please hit subscribe & stick around ✨

Most mornings are loud and rambunctious and—more often than not—end with me running down the driveway stride-for-stride with our six-year-old, screaming, “Let’s go! We can make it! Run faster!” as the bus brakes screech madly toward us.

But after I’ve kneaded out my side cramp and waved everyone off for the day, I come back to the house, pour myself a cup of black coffee, and begin my morning ritual of visiting the gardens.

By gardens, I mean the three patches of modest dirt I dug up with an old rake from the shed. That, and the flora that comes up every year—a perennial gift from our predecessors. Do they know there’s a woman out there who still wonders about them, who gratefully fondles their phlox and says,“Thank you, thank you, for this posthumous gift?”

I begin with the pansies, pulling any ruffled feathers from their shining heads, and then I breathe deeply of the sweet alyssum. I’ve read that these flowers are also called “carpet of snow” and I smile; it’s the only snow I want to see for at least 7 months. And then I’m always pleased to see the rhubarb patch, spritely as ever. My friend gave it to me last summer and I left it for dead in the scorching July sun. “Plant it anyway,” she told me. “It’ll probably come back.” I made a hole and put the blackened pile of roots in the ground. This year, life came in the place of death.

Every plant is a metaphor, I think. This pleases my writerly sensibilities.

I cannot remember to water my flowers, so I’m thankful for the rain. I now feel akin to the farmers; something about this morning communion with the earth makes me want to kick tires and look at the sky and feel a storm coming in my joints. I wonder whether I ought to pick up a Farmer’s Almanac; I once heard it’s all a bunch of conjecture but then again—if we’re gut-check honest with ourselves—what isn’t?

A robin has found a worm, and I wonder whether to celebrate with her or mourn for the poor nightcrawler dangling from her beak. I want to interject, to step in and say something, but then I remember that no one has asked me.

Instead I say good morning to the dahlias, fuss a little over the roses, then meander over to the peonies. Their buds are still tight fists, but one of these mornings they will unfurl and I will bury my face in them and I will not be this version of myself; I will be a twenty-one-year-old bride, holding a fistful of blush and wanting the day to get on with itself so I could get on with being married, with eating waffles in bed, with lounging on late mornings over coffee, with… Yes. I will get lost in the scent of those peonies.

My neighbor and I have a plan to drink coffee in her garden, just down the lane, when the lilacs are in full bloom. We will spend the morning there, talking about plants and eating blackberry scones with lavender glaze, and for a couple hours at least, we will be a living Jane Austen novel. Time will slow, and it will not matter that our kitchens are teetering with dishes or that we do sometimes lose sleep over the meaning of life; we will be human together, and that will be enough for a while.

By the time this ritual is finished each morning, I’ll have made the rounds to all the gardens in our yard, but more importantly, I’ll have visited each of the gardens of my mind, where I am always welcome to pick the fruits and let the juices run down my jaw, my arms.

I tuck these small whimsies into my pockets, my hair, my soul, and as the day wears on, I return to them for sustenance. On very difficult days, I must sometimes repeat the ritual at noon, and even after supper I have been caught sneaking out, just to rub the soft flesh of a lavender sprig to get me by until morning.

This article was published in my regular column “It Takes a Village” in the June issue of The Village Magazine. If you’re a local, go pick up a copy! If you’re from away, you can also view it here.