Why Flowers?

After a trip to two cemeteries this Memorial Day weekend, I started thinking. Each cemetery was fastidiously prepped for its annual cascade of flowers. Greens were intense. Edges were sharp. Walks were swept clean. The stage was set. Bring on the blooms.

But why flowers? Why do we make this annual tribute to the memory of our loved ones with flowers? Why stake out the cemeteries with baskets, vases, shapes, and sprays of roses, carnations, lilies, daisies, delphiniums, iris, lilacs, and peonies?

Blooms are, in fact, a part of most of life's important rites of passage: births, confirmations, graduations, weddings, anniversaries, illnesses, awards, and deaths. Why, I wondered, are these fragile creations are such integral parts of our stay on this planet?

I read lots of pieces about the topic, learning that flowers were deemed to be important to human health in the first century AD. A few centuries later, flowers of certain colors were thought to be effective in healing specific ailments, with red blooms helping blood-related maladies and blue blossoms helping to calm patients. Even now blue blossoms are thought to aid in the resolution of stress and addiction issues.

Much research has shown the benefits of having flowers in healing situations, such as hospitals and sick rooms at home. Some research has shown that flowers can assist in the treatment of Alzheimer's disease. Workplace studies have shown that the addition of flowers and plants can reduce stress and increase productivity.

And some research I read found positive impacts of floral arrangements in helping a society deal with trauma. Evidence came from Japan, after World War II, and the United States, after the September 11, 2001 attacks. This doesn't surprise me. Images of the massive flower banks following the deaths of John Lennon and Princess Diana attest to the value of floral expression of a group's grief.

Flowers at funerals are common in most religions, I learned, with the exception of orthodox Jewish ceremonies and those of some Islamic sects. One explanation I read of blooms' absence in Jewish funerals is the requirement that burial comes immediately after death. Since the body would not linger and decay, there was little need for strongly scented flowers to mask unpleasant odors. So a logical reason for massed flowers at funerals was initially for the comfort of the living, so that the smell of decay would not mar the ceremony.

Research conducted by the funereal floral industry has strong data (surprise) supporting the positive impacts of flowers on survivors. Flowers provide a reminder of the transitory nature of life, of the beauty of the departed's character, and of the promise of the bliss of the hereafter. Plants are deemed to be especially valued as long-term reminders of the loved one and as markers' of the solace and support offered to the grieving family.

So the vase of deep purple iris and the cheery basket of tulips and daisies that I placed on my father's gravestone and memory marker comfort me. They remind me of his dedication to his family, of his desire to create fun experiences for us over and over and over, of his devotion to his lovely wife Mary.

And the stunning arrangement I lay gently on my husband's marker at the veterans' cemetery strikes deep. The spread of white mums and carnations is reminiscent of his incredibly sweet innocence. His mother once told me that he didn't believe that people would ever lie and I found evidence of his deep trust in other humans. He was shocked and hurt when people he trusted were deceptive. The stunning dark blue larkspur sprays in this arrangement epitomize for me his reverence for the natural world, his dedication, both at home and work, to preserving the resources of this planet. Center stage of this arrangement are star gazer lilies, their deep pink petals in shocking contrast to their white surround. These are my favorite lilies, as they are fun, vibrant, and strong. Their aroma is a spicey clove blend. Like my late husband, these lilies turn heads, make gazes linger. They testify to his humor, his brilliance, his good looks. He was an incredible astronomer, a stunning star gazer, he was.

Joined together with millions of others this holiday weekend, I offer up the delicate, transitory glimpse of floral beauty. I am so grateful for the chance to mark joyful memory with delicate bloom, so glad I can grieve serenely with flowers.

Air Traffic

Serving as Chief of Air Traffic Control in my yard, I am very busy this time of year. Air traffic is at an all-time high. This is not easy work, but I am dedicated to doing it with skill and without complaint.

First I must observe...and direct...the larger crafts (birds). Work must be done to ensure that their approaches, landings, and take-offs are without incident. Hazards need to be minimized, which may require posting hawk-shaped decals on window panes or moving fueling stations away from easy feline access.

Then I must think of the community concerns. If a hammock is in the area, I must monitor it to ensure that residents are not bombed or subjected to excessive noise. If a gathering occurs, I must be vigilant that guests are not having close encounters of an avian kind.

Once I take care of safety and comfort issues, I can focus on observation and that is the fun part of air traffic control in my yard. A few years back, I followed the advice of an Audubon Society speaker and planted a hummingbird island. Using native plants as much as possible, I put in lots of mallow and pentstemon, in brilliant girlie-hues of hot pink and violet. I also added white monarda to the bed, which already had good stands of blue cornflower and pale yellow columbine. The island sprawls just north of deep pink monarda, dogwood, coral and yellow honeysuckle, and three large butterfly bushes (including the gorgeous deep purple of "Black Knight"). Pale coral oriental poppies, Japanese spurge and pale pink Queen of the Prairie round out that bed. The two spots lure hummingbirds shamelessly.

The hummers come. I hear them often before seeing them. Sometimes one will plummet into the honeysuckle, stay a flash, and then lift off. Sometimes one will wander a bit through the aspen grove, its subtle green shape looking much like an aspen leaf. Sometimes a pair will race through the yard, dipping, chasing, soaring in a crazed duet. Sometimes, rarely, one will perch on a limb or a wire and take a micro-nap.

The air is filled this time of year with bees. My benign neglect of oregano and mint and sunflowers under the bird feeders brings hoardes of bees. What a joy to see golden buzzes of different sizes working the big yellow faces of six-foot tall sunflowers! What pleasure to hear the soft whirr of bee in the tiny orchid oregano blooms next to the sunroom! What satisfaction to see a huge bumble of black and gold among the columbine! Given the globe's bee problems, I'm pleased to be helping a tiny bit.

Most notable in my garden air this time of year are the fluttering ballerina butterflies, their ivory tutus dotted with dabs of charcoal. These sweet creatures kiss many of my plants, not just the open-faced ones like yarrow and buddleia, but the ruffled skirts of yellow hollyhock, the pale umbels of parsley and the cheery white goblins in my petunia bed. Sometimes these performers do solos and other times engage in synchorized gyrations that spin my head. I watched a quartet this week whirl, dive, pop, and glide in a dance of impressive length. What, I wondered, made them move as one?

Monitoring air traffic in my yard is one of my important chores in late summer. You can rest assured that I am going stay vigilant at my post (whether it's a hammock, swing, or futon), keeping watch on all my aerial visitors.

Petals

Fruit trees are starting their annual flaunt. A couple of weeks ago, I gathered an armload of branches from my apricot and pear trees and brought them in the house. I pounded the cut end of each branch with a hammer, smashing it to allow the branch to drink in more water, and put them in a large crystal vase in my sunroom.

The regimen worked, as they're all decked out now in delicious slips of white and pale, pale pink. What a gorgeous spring spray! Meanwhile, the trees outside are hurrying to catch up. Only one of the apricot tree's branches is in bloom. I wonder if the trees can see their severed limbs in full regalia inside the house.

I like flowering trees, but their excess can overwhelm at times; I remember writing a poem years ago, accusing a full-bloomed tree of being a floosy. Last spring, I empathized with my flowering plum tree during an angry March storm:

Nubile red buds
beaded on plum trees branches
are wrestling with relentless waves of wind.
They don't want to fight.
They just want to plump up till,
one warmed sun day,
they explode like pink popcorn.

It's hard for me to take these petalled trees seriously. Some poets have. Ezra Pound, for one. His famous "In a Station of a Metro" became a manifesto for the imagist poetry movement and this powerful piece only had fourteen words:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Pound treated a blooming tree's gifts with more reverence than I. Maybe I should learn from him. Maybe I should realize how impressive these beautiful, transient disks of color are.

Maybe I should learn from language. For example, the word "petal" comes from a Greek word that means "leaf" or "thin plate." A whorl of petals on a flower is known as a "corolla," Latin for "little crown." At the base of some petals are nectaries, which secrete nectar and sometimes perfume. This all sounds elegant and dignified.

Maybe I should adjust my assessment of blossoming trees from being spring's harlots to being the season's royalty. Imagine: millions of delicate little Princess Di's...lined up coyly on branch after branch for the annual cottillion. Yes, I think I'll try this new, more reverent view of the petals that make spring such a rare and sweet time of year.