Heart

By trade I am a forager of flowers.  I scavenge, buy, and grow them so I can fashion them into designs. Sometimes I feel as though I breathe, sleep, and live amidst flowers.  I have grown right along side them in a metaphysical garden of sorts, and I feel as though my budding days are past and I have finally opened.

The first time a flower spoke to me was after a pregnancy sonogram. I had eagerly awaited the sight of my first baby, and held my breath as the screen fuzzed grey and black. Then I saw it.  The black spot where my baby was supposed to be. The technician furrowed her brow and tilted her head. I knew something was wrong.

“Can you hear the heartbeat?” I asked.

There was no heartbeat. No heart at all. But for the lack of one on that screen, my own burst and filled my chest with so much pain. I have never known sorrow like I did with that very first miscarriage. It was as if I was being pummeled by waves as I drowned, and I only wished I could sink down into it. But I could not. I floated near the surface and kept taking agonizing breaths.

No heart.

I was sitting in my living room, the lights off, feeling numb. I felt like a tomb. My baby had died inside of me. I was a grave. I could not make things grow. I looked up at my anthurium on the sill, its dry leaves curling at the edges. I couldn’t even keep a plant alive.

But there was something there. Something red poked up from the foliage. I got up. (Nothing had been able to get me up for days). I shuffled over to my dead plant, and there in the center was a bright red heart. A glimmer of hope snuck through my numbness. Ever so slowly I would feel my heart again.

Flowers bring us close to the infinite. Year after year they come back to life, cyclical and ever constant. Whether you believe in a Creator or Mother Earth or Science I still believe this rings true. Flowers are offerings. Filled with nectar, blushing their colors, and collecting light. They woo and charm and comfort.

I ended up having four miscarriages, one far enough along to bury. I planted forget-me-nots on its grave, and every year when those little blue beauties pop up they help me remember. A dear friend left a bouquet of flowers on my doorstep during that time of barrenness, and I still cherish her as the one who cared. And when one of my three little boys picks a flower and brings it to me, his big cheeks bursting with excitement at what he’d found for me, I feel my heart again.

Flowers help us see beauty in a world that can often be bleak and dark. To find heart in surprising places. I want to show the world what flowers can do: They can make us all denizens of light.

Klimt's mother and child by Flora Forager-002

Comments

  1. I can’t take it, you all have me in tears. I’m so sorry for all you d endured but so inspired by your commitment to continue to find beauty and life!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Wow. My heart is both breaking and growing in your story. I’m so sorry for your deep loss and I’m so glad that in creating and noticing, healing arrives if only by inches sometimes. You participate with nature in a way that astounds me. Thank you for sharing your story and heart with us.

    Liked by 1 person

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