A Warmth in Frozen Flowers

lessons from out in the cold

I made a trip to the grocery store. As usual, I asked my mom if there were any last-minute additions to the shopping list. “I’d love a fresh bouquet of flowers” she said with a smile.

I’d never been big on flowers. Not that I didn’t like them, but buying them seemed like a waste of money. They don’t live long. Their beauty window is short and small. And my thumb is not green. Not even a little.

My opinion on flowers began to shift in the early months of the pandemic. When solitary walks on the beach and through the overgrown preserves along the Myakka River in southwest Florida were my only escape, I started paying attention to flowers. Their presence. Size. Color. Scent. Uniqueness. And when it was safe(r) to grocery shop again or to visit my favorite Saturday outdoor market, I started buying a bouquet of flowers along with fruits and vegetables, eggs, peanut butter, and coffee.

The first time I brought flowers into my apartment, I realized I didn’t have any vases. For months, a light green plastic drinking glass held those weekly bouquets. I’d send photos of my flowers to family and friends as a way of staying connected while staying socially distant and isolated. I’d text them to my mom with a countdown to her next visit south or my next trip north.

The flowers also helped ease my anxiety around getting sick while living alone some 1500 miles from home. When losing the sense of taste or smell was a positive indication of having the virus, I would smell the flowers to test my senses. It had a calming effect in more ways than one.

My move back to Michigan was a decision based on my mom’s cancer diagnosis. The rapid onset and severity of symptoms left little time for packing up. I left a lot behind, including a few flower vases I picked up at an art fair. When I was fully back in Michigan, my mom was close to the beginning of a two-month hospital stay. Flowers weren’t on anyone’s mind. Nor were they permitted in the ICU or her room on the Oncology floor.

That day when mom said “I’d love a fresh bouquet of flowers” I was happy to oblige. We’ve been slowly adjusting to life after a near death cancer journey. Both of us were changed by her unexpected sickness and miraculous healing. We are both more grateful for life and making the most of each moment. And we both live with the trauma of those really difficult days. The impact on our bodies and spirits is real and different. We don’t re-live and remember the same details. And we both remember the day she finally came home and the flowers in a blue vase on the end table.

Her home-coming wasn’t exactly festive. Neither of us knew what was next. Only that she couldn’t stay in the hospital forever and that she still needed a lot of care and therapy. And there was still the lingering question of whether or not radiation was an option, given that more chemo was not possible.

Was home a place for healing? For dying? For things unknown?

In the uncertainty, I was sure of one thing; home was a place for love. And gentleness and compassion. And fresh flowers was part of the plan. Mom’s only request was that I move them closer to her bed set up in the dining room. She wanted to see them and smell them and touch them.

I learned as a child to associate flowers with death and funerals. Believing grieving could only last as long as the bouquet did. In the midst of those tender days and weeks with mom, I began to associate flowers with life and celebration. And to understand the ever-flowing timeline of emotions. That there is no timeline on emotions.

When mom said “I’d love a fresh bouquet of flowers” I couldn’t wait to show her what I’d picked out. But I forgot about them as I made multiple trips carrying groceries into the house. And she was so busy helping put things away that she forgot to ask about them.

It wasn’t until the next afternoon that I remembered there was not one, but two bouquets on the front passenger seat of the car; purple chrysanthemums and blue and yellow hydrangeas. I cried when I got to the car and found those frozen flowers. The hydrangeas were done. The color faded. The petals wilted. The stems cold and also mushy like overcooked broccoli. After closer inspection the chrysanthemums offered a glimmer of hope.

Mom suggested we let them warm a little before putting them in water so not to shock their systems. An hour later both bouquets were in a vase. As I suspected the hydrangeas were too far gone. But the chrysanthemums were responding to our love and care.

I checked on them regularly. Added some extra nutrients to their water. I found myself talking to them and singing to them. We laughed, not at them, but with them and with each other. Mom and I have learned to laugh as an expression of joy and gratitude. There were days we laughed so not to cry or scream or fight with each other because we were afraid and didn’t know how to talk about our fears.

The world feels like it is in a never-ending winter. A perpetual deep freeze. Our lives, our hopes and dreams, our plans and futures feel like flowers frozen from a long night left out in the cold. Starved of water and light by violence and oppression. Lacking nutrients because madmen froze feeding programs in the name of preventing waste and ending fraud.

There is no denying we live in troubled times. No way of knowing exactly where this is leading or how long it will last. Is this a time of healing? Or dying? We are already witnessing so much death. What do we do with this? I don’t pretend to know the answer. But one answer is to treat each day like a frozen flower. To be gentle and tender and kind and curious. To go slow.

To not allow guilt to keep us from cultivating joy. To not let shame keep us from crying out our grief and anger and frustration. To not get stuck in helplessness or put all our hope in some other hero.

Treat each day like a frozen flower by not using fear as a reason to push away those we love because we are afraid. To not let fear drive us into hiding. To not ignore people and communities when they tell us they are fearful. To not wait for things to get worse before we step off our privileged porches in protest. Don’t wait until another trans person is murdered to say their names. Say their names now by advocating for their humanity and rights, dignity and safety, and access to healthcare and jobs and housing. Say their names when you call just to say hello.

Treat each day like a frozen flower by finding and creating warm spots. When I first pulled those flowers from the front seat of the car, it was like searching for a pulse on a lifeless body, any sign of breathing. In the middle of one of the chrysanthemums—what I’ve since learned are called “disk florets”—there was a warm spot. Icey cold all around, but that one spot was as warm as sun or bread from the oven. I didn’t mention it. At the time, it seemed weird or like an illusion. But I know it was real. I felt it. And in these long days ahead, I’ll remember it and feel it, that warm spot in the midst of a deep freeze.

A reminder that in times of sickness and healing, death and life, change and uncertainty, there is warmth to be found and felt.

A reminder of that day mom said “I’d love a fresh bouquet of flowers.”

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

P.S. This Friday, February 21st, is an anniversary in my life. It will mark 8 years since I surrendered my clergy credentials and entered a season of unraveling. I thought about letting the day pass without acknowledging its significance. But realized there is still much to say and share. And I’ll be sharing some words, and an invitation, and a small gift of gratitude through the 10 Camels email newsletter on Friday. Click the box below to sign up if you haven’t already.