You, Too, Can Have Flowers

I have this daily practice of writing in my journal and, in the top right hand corner, there’s a spot for the date. I watch the middle number rise each day, ticking by between the more solid borders of month and year. 

Every morning, the midsection of the date swells a little more, indicating a passage of time; like a pregnant belly it grows ever-so-perceptibly. I recognize that each page represents a day used up, a progression towards—what, exactly? Death, yes—but this is no existential crisis. It’s more a question of fullness. 

Recently, I envisioned the years of my life lying flat on the ground—spread out like a tape measure and spanning some long-gray-dusty-open expanse that I took to mean ‘time.’

And then, from it, I saw flowers begin to emerge. In some places, only single blossoms or small clusters broke through, but in others, huge profusions of unruly blooms crept and buzzed and exploded with color. 

As I looked upon this image, I began to realize: I could not control how far my measure extended through this expanse called ‘time’—that distance had clearly already been laid. But those flowers? They were under my care. I could fill the day with bouquets, if I nourished them properly.

I am reminded of the simple and jarring words of Mary Oliver: “Look, are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?” Or, in terms of this visual: Are you groveling in the dirt when you could be gathering blossoms? 

When I first became a mother, darkness seeped in through the windows and the doors and every other crevice of my mind. I could not have anticipated how much this change would shake me.

I touched my stomach and thighs and face; they did not feel like mine. The hours melted into a blur of feedings and wakings and changings; they didn’t feel like mine, either. And in the navy-skied pre-dawn hours, I nursed and cried and scrolled through Instagram accounts that told me things like, “You’re a mom now. It’s not your turn anymore; it’s your child’s.” 

I began to believe the lie that my life would no longer be full of color; instead, I saw a flat expanse, dusty and gray, stretching as far as my eyes could see. Maybe you’ve been there too. Maybe you’re there now. 

Barbara Cooney wrote a beloved children’s book called Miss Rumphius, and it’s based on the legacy of Alice Rumphius, the real-life “Lupine Lady” who spread lupine seeds all along the coast of Maine in order to make the world a more beautiful place.

I tell you this because our lives—those tape measures laid out across the expanse of time—are plots of tilled soil. And we? We all get to be the Miss Rumphius of our own land. If we want great profusions of color and unbearably beautiful days, then we’ve got to start planting. 

This is not just for mothers, of course—we’ve all got our soil marked out for us. But I feel a particular responsibility toward the woman with the newborn baby asleep at her breast; I feel I need to look at her quite somberly and tell her it’s a cultural lie that she must only sow seeds in her children’s gardens now. I feel like I need to tell her that she can see in color again.

How? she or you might ask, with eyes so dull from color-blindness that gardens seem laughable. To this I say: the way we sow our flowers need not be showy. Others might know nothing of our planting. Our blossoms may be internal entirely—an inward investment that creates expansiveness within our souls. This is not self-care I’m talking about; it’s an invitation to make beauty within and around you with whatever materials you’ve got. To make art on the measured canvas of your life with whatever medium you can use right now. 

This is not a live-like-you-are-dying message—it’s a live-like-you-are-living one. The moment you hear someone (especially if that voice is your own) tell you that your time to gather bouquets has come and gone, turn on your heels and run in the opposite direction. It’s not the end of the measuring tape you need to fear; it’s the flowerless days you should be concerned about. You have been given the ability to make brilliant blossoms out of the materials around you. So fill your days with laughing friends and their crinkly eye creases. Feed the birds, sketch the horizon, stir soup. Buy impossibly breakable teacups and drink from them, sip after sip after sip. Eat cheese. Serve your neighbor. Kiss your spouse like you really mean it. 

And when you go to bed tonight, may you look back upon your day and see an explosion of color. 

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To order a copy of my poetry collection on motherhood, find The Shape I Take at https://bottlecap.press/collections/poetry/products/shape.

And be sure to connect with me on Instagram @deidressecondcup.

I also offer live, local poetry readings and have limited availability for speaking engagements for 2024. Reach out to me at deidrembraley@gmail.com if you’d like to host me for an event!