Peonies
The peonies at our house bloomed this week, bursting onto the scene with the fanfare of a chorus line. A hundred or more voluptuous beauties, as fragile as they are flamboyant, in all shades of cream and palest pink and scarlet, each one worthy of its own lipstick shade or rare perfume label. For a day or two they hold their heavy heads up high and I snap photo after photo — trying, in vain of course, to somehow capture their brief moment of perfection.
And then, too soon, always too soon, the heavy heads bow toward the ground, brought low by the sheer weight of their own extravagance.
Yesterday, beneath a gathering of storm clouds, I walked through the damp grass, bending down to gaze into one fragrant, implausible peony heart after another. And then I cut them all.
Already, here in the bittersweet beginning of summer I anticipate the poignance of its ending. I wait all year for the peonies’ burst of glory and then mourn the moment’s passing even as it arrives. I know exactly how this languid season will bend overnight to fall; how the water in the lake I have yet to swim in will turn suddenly cold; how the spikes of goldenrod will appear by the roadside as I run down the hill toward town on an August afternoon; how we will walk through the house to close windows at dusk, speaking wistfully of how short the days have grown, marveling at the early darkness and wishing we’d had more dinners on the screened porch when we still had the chance.
My family has been teasing me for days: “It’s only the first of June and Mom’s already sad because summer’s going by too fast!” It’s true. I want so badly for it all to last that I miss it before it’s begun. Which means, of course, that I’m in danger of missing it altogether.
Last night the rain came down in torrents, keeping me awake. I didn’t mind, really, for the hours of a sleepless night slip by slowly, offering time and space for thoughts to drift. (I’m learning through these menopausal years that “trying” to sleep is always an exercise in frustration, that allowing for wakefulness can actually be less stressful than willing sleep to come.) And in fact, I love lying in bed in the darkness, love listening to the steady thrum of rain on the roof while I’m curled up warm and snug within, no place to go and nothing to do but wait it out. As the storm intensified toward dawn, I thought of the peonies, glad I’d had the foresight to gather them up in time and save them from this relentless lashing of wind and water.
Of course, they won’t last long in the house, either. But my rescue mission has afforded them a few more days at least. Every vase I own is full, as if we’re preparing to host a wedding here, or a funeral. The air is sweet, each silken petal a work of art demanding admiration, right here, right now: within a week, they really will be gone.
It occurs to me as I sit typing just inches away from the pitcher full of pink blooms on the kitchen table, that perhaps I cherish my favorite flowers as much for their impermanence as for their beauty. If I lived always amidst such spectacle, how soon would it be before I’d take it for granted, or fail to notice it at all?
Finally, a weak, intermittent sun peeks through the clouds and I’m lured away from the computer, ready for a break. I pour a second cup of coffee and take the time to drink it slowly, sitting outside on the granite step by the kitchen door. The swallows are more determined in their work this morning than I am, swooping in and out of the birdhouses, bringing food to their babies. Fat bees bounce from blossom to blossom in the salvia and a steady procession of swallowtail butterflies hover over the poppies. A dragonfly glistens, emerald green, on the walkway and then lifts off, coming to light briefly at the edge of the birdbath. A chipmunk, cheeks stuffed like a cartoon character’s, pauses, quivering at my feet, before scampering off with his stash to a hole in the stone wall. It’s a busy world out here.
I linger in my spot, watching, for a long time. Everything, it seems, is in harmony with everything else: the insects, flowers, birds, all have given themselves completely to the lushness of this early summer day. Slowly, it dawns on me. These creatures, each industriously tending to the urgent work of being, count their brief lives not in months but in moments, and yet they have time enough. So do I.
Eventually, everything ends. Nothing is permanent. Time isn’t ours to own, to measure and mete out in portions. It just is. Instead of wishing for my flowers, or this June day, or summer, or life itself, to last longer, I am simply meant to be here. My only task: to live into whatever the here and now has to offer. Perhaps this is all there is to it – put one foot in front of the other on the path toward being at peace with what is. And just as lying awake feels easier when I don’t struggle to achieve sleep, accepting the truth of impermanence again and again brings me gently back into alignment with reality. There is joy to be found both in seizing the day and in letting it go.
On Sunday my parents will come over for dinner. We’ll eat out on the porch and celebrate Father’s Day. Our own sons won’t be with us, and I’ll miss them, but absence is part of the fabric of our lives now, their comings and goings woven into this larger, more complex and forgiving family tapestry. So, I’ll set the table for four instead of six, light candles, put on music, write a card for my dad. If the peonies have all gone by, there will be daisies to pick. Perhaps I’ll find strawberries at the market, prepare the first shortcake of the season for dessert. Whatever the day brings, I’ll welcome it.
It’s so obvious, really, and at the same time such a challenge — to let go of our battles, large and small. I keep reminding myself that it’s what we’re all here to do, this ongoing spiritual practice called being alive: notice, give thanks, and open our hearts to things as they are.
