A Flowers Perspective

I. Mules, Tools, and a Massive Family

Growing up, my parents, as my brother would put it, had as “busy as bees” in the summers. They didn’t force us to get jobs or require that we attend summer school. Instead, we had countless days in their gardens. In other words, chores. However, what once was considered our demanding summer duties, labors that exerted my energy, and hours I not-so-secretly wanted to end, now take the spot as my favorite childhood memories.

When I was very young, my mom taught me how to take a tiny shove (a garden trowel) and make a long line of holes for the petite bright pink and purple flowers while spilling out the knowledge of care: to avoid making the holes too big, don't put them too close together or too far apart, gently remove the flowers from their containers so we don't hurt the roots, and never over water. Then, we would plant what seemed like an endless amount, patting the ground after the final scoop of dirt leveled out, allowing the roots to be fully covered and the stem comfortably aligned straight to the sun.

As we aged, the more tasks we got, the tiny shovel turned into a giant that I lugged behind me, and the tiny holes for pretty flowers became me digging up weeds. The worst was taking the immovable wheelbarrow back and forth with those weeds and other unwanted remnants to pile into the giant Home Depot heavy-duty paper bags. Those three-foot bags marked with the "Let's DO this" mocked me.

My parents spent hours on the weekends, and my mom doubled the time nursing their gardens. Yes, gardens, as in plural, to be exact, we had three gardens. The front house garden had those bright pink and purple flowers: petunias, geraniums, and vincas. They followed the steps to our front door, and if you stood on the sidewalk directly in front of the house, it was all you would see. There was a lilac tree, which signaled the path to our backyard, where we had the second, the side-house garden, with more bush-like flowers: peonies, Russian sage, coneflowers, and hostas. After opening our giant wooden gate, your first sight would be our weeping cherry tree and hydrangeas. You would enter what was once my serenity; the comfort shades of blue, pink, and lavender from the ball-shaped hydrangeas and the fountain of white in the background from the weeping tree; the slender branches gracefully billowing, barely over the ground. It was then along the right side of our backyard, past our patio, after our deck, where our last garden was. It was filled with the smells of summer meals: with herbs and produce plants like strawberries, tomatoes, basil, and oregano.

My favorite year was when we grew watermelon, and at the end of the summer, we finally got to try what took so long to develop. My first bite into what was grown by my own two hands. And it tasted like shit, not ripe at all. But the excitement of seeing a whole watermelon grow in my backyard was worth it all.

Each summer, there were countless calls from my mom telling me to water the plants. Making many of my texts to friends, "I'll be there later," beginning my race to finish. For a very long time, and with a juvenile mindset, I would think of the flowers as dumb. I only wanted to spend the most time possible hanging out with my friends. I didn't understand why they put so much effort into something that ended up dying with the fall and winter seasons. It seemed like insanity, the endless loop of demanding work and then to be once again covered in a blanket of white. All until the spring indicator, when I would walk into a classroom to see new bright colored posters, often flowers, and hear teachers echoing, "April showers bring May flowers," to indicate that the summer chores would come soon enough.

As a kid, I didn’t appreciate the gardens or having a green thumb at all. Fighting the hose, trying to stretch it across the yard, digging dirt with a shovel the size of me, and hauling the wheelbarrow were all irritating, time-consuming tasks. I spent many years being a pesky child to my mother, nagging her about flowers and saying out-of-pocket comments that resembled my age.

I look back at my childhood: those aching tasks, the hot sun beating, the absentminded excitement to shower and be with my friends, and my parents' hours of unbothered joy-filled focus. And I’m nothing but thankful my parents made our house a place of care and love, not just for our family and the dog but for all living organisms.

Flowers are living, flowers are gorgeous, and flowers are symbols of esteemed love, three lessons my parents taught me. Similar to the lectures we learn from being a pet owner at a young age, I was taught how challenging it is to raise them. They don't need walks, their food is not at the same time of day, and they don't need to learn tricks. But yet, each flower and species requires a lot of attention and time. You must be gentle, patient, and respectful while continuously gaining knowledge on how to take appropriate action for each. Each summer, we added to our family. Learning a different form of love.

II. Not One With the Green Thumb

Okay, so she wants me to start gardening; now I have to add a green thumb to my list of do -- is what you might be thinking from my charming childhood story. No no no. That is not the takeaway here; I do not want to demand a hobby from you to try to learn life lessons of nurturing and hard work.

The lesson we can learn from our gorgeous flower friends is the lesson of adaptability. Cliche, I know! But yet, the lesson doesn’t seem to stick for many of us. We get confused with being our honest true selves, that it must mean that if someone doesn’t like us, then well fuck 'em! And well, that could be for many reasons. Finding that confidence and inner acceptance is a wonderful thing. However, it also has led too many down the path of discomfort with others. Not knowing how to be in the same room, talk with, or even accept people who need different forms of care to grow and receive love.

You can take the same flowers in the same garden, and yet one could be dying because of a neglected detail, like not having enough direct sunlight. As the gardener, it is your duty to care, to gain the knowledge to learn and adapt so that the flower can flourish like the others. You can take the same house, the same street, the same pin-pointed place on a map, and you will see similar flowers, yet they all need different forms of attention and care.

No matter what people we allow in our lives, what rooms we enter, or where we travel; it is our obligation to be adaptable. Adaptabilty is a form of love: it involves empathy, time, and respect.

I'm not saying you need to start gardening to understand how to be adaptable, but it wouldn't be a bad place to start. I am grateful I had this form of love taught to me by my parents, and I know many others would only open new doors to understanding each other more; what it actually means to love your neighbors, friends, family, and strangers.

To Adapt - To learn, love, and respect others.