All My Pretty Flowers

In the garden of my life, my people are there, a colorful gathering of flowery souls.  Amazingly beautiful.  Each of you.  All of you.  Collectively, a field of color painted on the canvas in front of me. Much like the works of floral art, my mother used to paint. Beautiful and awe-inspiring.

I watched as her graceful hands sketched broad strokes across the canvas, in a room where the morning sun slid across the fields and filtered in through the windows, to guide her artist’s eye.  Where flowers suddenly appeared, where there were none before. Where rivers flowed and trees grew with their crooked limbs, arching towards the sky. Where she was submersed in her world, creating her art. Where a smile played leisurely across her beautiful face. Where we watched with quiet admiration and a profound wish that a small grain of that talent had manifested itself into our own genes to someday take root and bloom.

A vase, a stem, a bouquet, a colorful display of lilacs and roses, pansies, iris, whatever she saw that aroused her spirit and sent her, brush in hand, to stand in front of the easel and create magic, it seemed.  I’ll always remember the way she looked when she was content with what she’d done, her Monet complete. And the way her skilled fingers wrapped around the brush, caressing the strokes, her soul flowing through her like a vessel, breathing colorful life onto the canvas. A child remembers those things, like she remembers the feel of those arms around her or a smile only she could give. As I look at her paintings now, in front of me, I see her soul there, colorful, emotional, youthful, and full of life. My mother.

And my dad, well…… strong, farmer blood coursed through his veins, fueling the purpose of his life, passed down from father to son, many generations over.  God took his soul, set it firmly into the beauty of nature and said, “this is where you belong, my son.”   Dad honored that gift with gracious devotion.  I marveled at the way his eyes saw more than mine did: the pattern of leaves, the bark of trees, the appreciative look at the delicate petals of flowers, the detail of a butterfly wing, the movement of the clouds, the prediction of the sky.  His spirituality heightened to a level I could only watch and admire. I vowed to be more like him. To honor his reverence to nature and God.

I watched his hands, too, as they gently planted the seeds, tilled the ground, and caressed the blooms, making sure that they thrived. Fields, orchards, gardens, he tended them all, lovingly, tenderly.  Much as he did his girls, his pride obvious, as he watched us grow and blossom into women he adored.  His blood flowed through us, nourishing us with the richness of his love. His own personal garden that, with the gentlest of hands, formed our souls to hold a piece of him, tucked away, forever within our reach. Always with us, ever guiding us.  So that all we have to do, is take one look at nature, flowers, sunsets or rain and that piece of him nudges its way back to life.  Our soul moves, our eyes fill, our heart swells, we release a sigh. “Ahhh, there you are, Dad. You’re back.”  Only a sunset away.

So, it’s no wonder that I compare you all, the people in my life, to the unique and indescribable beauty of flowers as you gather together in my garden.  And I thank my parents for blending their individual passions inside my soul.  Flowers have amazed, inspired, and humbled me, my entire life.  The beauty, the colors, the miracle of the blooms.  The differences, the strengths, the fortitude, the stamina, their miracle of  survival each season, regardless of the harshness of weather.  It describes all of you as we journey through this life together. 

The beauty of my garden, though, is not just the color of the flowers, although they do move me to speechless awe.  But, it’s also the various strains of beauty that are yours alone, each of you. The individuality, the imperfections, the lovely beings that you are.  My seasoned eyes appreciates it all, takes all of you in, never judging.  The garden as a whole, yes, but also the flowers, large and small, stem, petals, thorns, fragrance, the picture of perfection with all its imperfections. 

I see you, gloriously unique, strong, and colorful. I hold each of you in my own caring hands and bask in the light you bring, and love you more than you could possibly know.  So, as I walk through this journey of mine, and gaze at my garden, and watch your beauty dance in the sunlight, your presence humbles me and makes my soul sing with the joy of you in my life.  And I am infinitely grateful.

Thank you.  All of you.  All my pretty flowers.

Simply yours,

K

“Mother’s Paintings” can now be seen on their own page on my website.http://www.moonflowerblooms.com/my-mothers-paintings/