Thank you for the lovely story and metaphor. Interestingly enough, before my father raised and bred daylilies, his pride and joy in his gardens used to be gladiolus! I remember him bringing in big sprays of all colors, putting them in a tall crystal vase that we had and then setting them on our fireplace hearth for all of us, but especially my mother, to enjoy. Absolutely beautiful! And worth all the effort.

Many beautiful things in life require commitment and tender loving care. Friends are one.

So, readers, what flowers are you?

I had to write and tell you and your bloggers about a self-realization moment that happened less than an hour ago. It’s in keeping with your advice to embrace silence in our lives.

Now, if may seem strange, but my silence is while I’m driving, alone, in my car. And it has always been thus. I didn’t know it until I read Weaving a Woman’s Life. But riding in the car on a beautiful day like today with the windows open and the air conditioning off, my mind is apt to ramble farther than the car.

I’m ashamed to say that it’s August whatever and today is the first Saturday I’ve risen early enough to get to my favorite fruit and vegetable stand before their supply of gladiolus sold out. They’re usually gone by noon. I was there at 10 and only two bundles of glads stood soaking in water in the usual white plastic pail. I studied the two and picked the bundle with the least buds in full bloom because I know that glads will keep blooming even after the stalk is cut from the bulb.

It’s about a fifteen minute drive down the mountain and back to my apartment and about five minutes into the trip home I realized I, too, am a gladiolus. My only child died of cancer twelve years ago and with his death the stalk of my life severed from its bulb. There weren’t many flowers from that bulb over the next few years but there were plenty of gardeners who cared for the bulb left behind. They dug it up and stored it in the harsh weather. They replanted it in the good. And each year the stalks grew taller and more buds appeared and more flowers bloomed. Today, thanks to the gardeners, every time a stalk is cut, more flowers bloom more fully.

No more than the glads themselves know, I don’t know why I keep blooming each time my stalk is cut. But I lay the thanks at the feet of my gardeners: Kathy, Glenda, Judy, Mother Baigert, Zita and now, gratefully, I add you, Paula.

Sometimes I wonder why it works. Sometimes I wonder why the gardeners don’t give up and go tend a less work-intensive flower. I think I’ll try to stop wondering. Today I learned I’m a glad. As long as I let the gardeners tend me, I will give back blooms. And that’s a good lesson from a moment of silence.