Reading: from Ellen Bass’s “Moth Orchids” in her collection Like a Beggar: “Here they float: eleven creamy moths, eleven white egrets/suspended in flight, eleven babies in satin bonnets,/eleven brides stiff in lace, the waxy pools/of eleven white candles, eleven planets/burning in space.”
My son gave me a white moth orchid last year for Mother’s Day. As we approach this Mother’s Day, that same orchid has poured forth eleven new white blooms this year. They started sometime in March. One by one. As of this week, there are eleven white blooms, like “white fans glistening,” a reminder of my boys. A miracle that a) I even have children, and b) that this Mother’s Day orchid bloomed a second time. Orchids ain’t easy.
I am usually sad on Mother’s Day. I am grateful of my two wonderful and healthy boys, but I am reminded of my mother who has passed, the grandmothers I miss, and the miscarriage I had one Mother’s Day weekend many moons ago.
I have beautiful sons. Smart, in the fruit of their blossoming into men. I have eleven gleaming white blossoms with magenta centers smiling in their showy meringue. Heavy hearts can still be grateful.
Offering: Stare at a flower. One of the redbuds or dogwood blossoms or a sneaky azalea. Maybe you’ve got a crocus nearby or wild violets. Stare at one. Sit with it. In silence. In gratitude. It will come again.