Something like a Duck

If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's not a cat

A Hand-Held Garden

I cannot remember how it came to be: Did I last into the night hours lost of wisdom and in want of knowledge? or had I come to need knowledge to purge my wisdom’s woes?

Those who love me can forgive me for being so thoughtful and silent these days. I promise my mental quota will be met with one last postulating post. And my silence will last as long as the harlot’s virtue. Besides, puffy eyes do not go well with this outfit so I simply must move past this.

I am a true lover of all things Wordsworth. He has often been my mind’s mirror, capturing my nuance in perfect prose. He never denies the lament of love or hardship of loss, but he never capitalizes blame in all his grief either. He believes where there is wrong there is reason. William Wordsworth often utilizes the imagery of gardens and seasons to convey where his feelings are buried and the purpose of his chaos.

My nights have been  blurred with exhaustion and thought. But the visual of a garden has been constant. I flipped through my books finding there in Wordsworth’s writings my current aching:

“I began
My story early, feeling as I fear,
The weakness of a human love, for days
Disown’d by memory, ere the birth of spring
Planting my snowdrops among winter snows.”

The galanthus, also known as the ‘snowdrop’, is a bulbous plant that flowers in winter. A beautiful white and hopeful flower (according to Victorian floriography), the snowdrop exists when nothing else can. Before the warmth of Spring can nurture Nature, and long after Autumn has laid the Earth to rest, this flower sustains beauty in bleakness.  I think this is where my heart is…roaming the grounds in search of the Garden of Galanthus.

My memories of normalcy, the days when we played and slept and ate without worry or consequence, are no longer mine to live. I have to leave them as they are where they belong…there in the dead winter’s past as the blossoms of Hope. Before spring comes to flower my new garden, I have to let these snowdrops bloom.

A tussie-mussie (or nosegay) is the small decorative bouquet Victorian women would use to convey feelings via coded messages. It was a means of communication dubbed ‘The Language of the Flowers.”  Each flower in the bouquet represented a specific sentiment: The acacia meant a secret love, heliotrope showed devotion, and so forth. This made me wonder, what message do I carry? What language does my garden speak ? And, by God, does it match my shoes!?

I know my snowdrops are bound in the company of chamomile (energy under adversity), yarrow (health), bee balm (compassion), and pink verbena (family union). I decorate my gathered garden with blue violets of Faith and strong sprigs of thyme for courage. My maternal love captured in the cinquefoil’s growth.

The most notable (and necessary) component to progress is that of movement. I would, that I could,  lie in hiding somewhere in a garden of perpetual bliss. Since there is little advancement in stationary steps, I will pluck the flowers meant to speak my intent and continue on. As my needs change in life, so too may my hand-held garden (and subsequently my shoes and handbag to match).

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