Lilacs and Peonies

Oh, dear. I’ve been “tagged” before but have declined (or, to my shame, ignored) the opportunity. It has recently occurred to me, however, that that's the very opposite of what my response should be.

So this time?

Le Belette, this one’s for you, baby! (And to those I failed to respond to in the past, I apologize, sincerely.)

La Belette has asked me to name my six favorite flowers.

I’m thinking, however, that some of you know me well enough by now to know that I’m not a great follower of rules – Mwa ha ha ha haaaa!

Come and get me, coppers!

To me, there are only two flowers that mean anything.


Lilacs and Peonies.


Spring. Winter is over and oh, how grateful I am! Spring and the flowers that come with it are warmth, and, somehow, love. They remind me of my mother, a woman both physically and spiritually beautiful.

Look at her.

There is an almost hypnotic quality to her beauty: the rich, chestnut tones to her thick, glossy hair; the full curved lips framing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth; the dark-eyed sweetness of calm, patient eyes. The vision of my mother – especially when one calls up early childhood, when one’s mother was at the Center of Everything Right, the supplier of food and love and wisdom – is one of sunshine and line-dried sheets; of smiling, talcum-sweet babies; of lilac bushes at the perimeter of the yard; of peonies, enormous flowers even the ants adore, flowers that cry out: I never left! I live!

They only last a little while, lilacs and peonies; and then they're gone. And maybe that’s why I love them. Because nothing beautiful can last, not in my experience. You may know differently – and I hope you do – but for me, pain sits next to love, despair next to hope.

Ah. You’ve touched a nerve here, La Belette.