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Hello Mailing List Friends,
I posted a blog earlier today, "The Purple Flower and the Umbilical Cord".  I am not certain if it was sent via email as usual.  So please check the blog...I wouldn't want you to miss this.

Be well.

Mj

The Purple Flower and the Umbilical Cord

Stray corkscrew curls swirled behind her like kite tails as she pedaled ahead of me on her bike. I followed in my car blotting out clear images of French braids, pink fenders and wobbly training wheels. She darted in between two crumbling houses surrendering to chipped paint and sagging front porches with missing windows. I cranked up the volume of the CD player, disappointed in Schubert for not providing me with much needed relief from the ugly, grim reality and imperfection of our culture as it invaded my safe world. I closed the window, hoping to keep it outside where it belonged. How could this be? I reached for a piece of gum.

Laughing toddlers with three-day-old orange Kool-Aid moustaches – oblivious to their grungy disposable diapers that should have been changed hours before – dashed in and out of the street. I drove by slowly, trying not to look but unable to ignore the vacant stares of adults who sat slumped on deteriorated steps. The stench of abandonment filled the air.

I parked the car and waited, for what? I didn’t know. She – the resilient purple flower that grows in the crack in the sidewalk – stood beside a gray trashcan flipped on its side, smiled and motioned for me to come. I struggled against the stronghold of gravity and found myself standing beside a corroded El Camino with no tires, searching for the tools to abandon my own sense of abandonment.

The gatekeeper – a dark brown dog – watched from the second story window of a dirty pink house. I hesitated when we locked eyes. He didn’t flinch. Ignoring my initial impulse to meet the challenge, I looked away. I could hear him panting when I walked past the window.

Something smelled – a cross between cloves, pepper and sweat. I couldn’t identify the source or decide if it was good or bad.

I stepped over rusted bicycles, random parts and more trashcans to a small chicken coop tucked against a slanted wooden fence in the corner. The sight of familiar clucking hens – allies – invited tightness in my chest. I bit my thumbnail and watched them peck for bugs in the once paved driveway. They had food, water and adequate space. I exhaled, but not enough. What are we doing here? I screamed silently.

I brushed away the cobwebs of lullabies, apple blossoms and green grasses dotted with bright yellow dandelions. I grasped the delicate tendrils of long forgotten innocence and hope and tucked them back in the box with longing and regret. With the weight of the key pressed against my chest, I gathered faith and carried on.

A woman gives birth. The umbilical cord – never severed – remains intact and grows, invisible to the naked eye.

The Secrets of the Daisy

I sit at the gathering place
Surrounded by the hush
Of the sun-drenched meadow,
Deflowering a daisy with
He loves me,
He loves me not.
Subtle is the sweet grass
Embracing my self.
Yet, in all its silken splendor
My heart wilts
In regret.
Oh, but to leave the fate
Of love
Within crumpled fragments
Of a daisy!
For if I know not,
The intentions of a man,
Surely, he is not worthy
Of plucking from her,
The blissful glory,
Which graces her center.
Who am I to take her crown,
Boasting magnificence,
Innocence,
Encircling a brilliant
Golden face?
Generous,
Elegant,
Bowing only to the wind,
I shall leave the secrets
With her.
Never again to
Strip her pride
Petal by petal,
Just to know
If he loves me
Or not.

The Others Came (Sisters Part 2)

Then, at the insistence of Mother, the others came. Shy at first and oblivious to their two defrocked sisters – now silent with mere purple clusters staring vacantly beyond fresh dew as their own pinkness lay fowl on the garden floor. There is no time for mourning such magnificent brevity; the diminishing of one is in the memory of the other.

On unbending stalks, the many sisters reach towards the next day, unaware of time tapping recklessly against delicate folds of innocence. They have risen above the ones that hold tight to the promise of beauty in swollen buds, yet they continue to seduce winged ones and walking ones alike with intoxicating fertility and wild perfection.

Two Sisters

We came from the same womb, the same warm dark place, tucked safely inside with the others. We wait until the last full moon of the planting month, when the killing frosts are no longer a threat before we push through the rich layer of that which separates here from there.

All of we sisters quiver and reach towards the warm sun rising high above, following from east to west, eager to unfold and liberate beauty from within round, swollen buds. The others – tall, slender shoots – come, rush, tower over us, boasting frilly lavender, wine, yellow and white frocks that crumple and wither before us.

We take turns showing our faces – unmistakable papery pink petals surround an innocent, deep crown of purple seeds known to bring sleep and cast a spell on the weak. The spirit of beauty and truth intoxicates those of a divine spark.

When the time is right, my sister and I follow the others, whose spotted silken petals lay still in garden grasses beside enduring hemlock.

We wait and watch the other unravel undying pinkness. Quiet winds urge us to show our faces, which makes the gardener weep. She comes out once and again to watch us and to wait.

After the night and before the day, my sister and I make the last gesture of completeness. In all of our glory, we – two sisters of the earth womb, follow the sun and beguile young men with potent seeds and entice old women to cut for her table – have arrived. We sisters collect dew and call upon butterflies. We watch the others come and go before us and we watch the others wait in bud for our passing. Finally, in one sweet, elusive moment, our decaying petals will lie on the garden floor, proclaiming our memory and lingering on the next miracle.

We Met in the Garden

I meandered through the 1870’s farmhouse house, trying to ignore her belongings; the soap dish, shower curtain, laundry detergent, cans of tuna… things like that. It was as if she just vanished in the middle of an ordinary day. Nails poked out of the porch gray wooden floorboards. The horsehair plaster walls were painted bright shades of yellow, blue and sea foam green and laced with indiscriminate cracks. The vintage sixties wallpaper that covered one wall in the living room made me a little light headed.

We made our way up the steep stairs and into a lemony colored bedroom. The orange flowered curtains, pulled back with lime green braided yarn ties, instantly reminded me of Nana, my mother’s mother who managed to maintain her innocence throughout her entire life. I smiled and pulled the heavy chain on the vintage tulip light, the same fixtures as the house of my childhood.

I followed the seventies, orange wall-to-wall carpet into the bunkroom, which was to be my favorite room; a large attic with exposed beams and a lot of space. Wood makes me comfortable. I sat down and sunk into an unusually narrow bed and wiggled my fingers through a multi-colored afghan, crocheted by her, no doubt. Overwhelmed by the scent of a combination of pine, cedar and mothballs; I counted five mousetraps, one being so old that it might fetch a few bucks on eBay (probably not).

She died a year before but lived in a nursing home for a few years. Her sons must have made the decision to take her out of her home and just lock the doors and forget about it. Maybe the ordeal was too painful. With the exception of a few high-end antiques, they left the sifting through randomness for someone else, even if it meant complete strangers.

At first, for me – the quintessential Yankee – it was almost impossible to discard her things. Most of the stuff was in fine working order, but it was hers. I rifled through a plethora of vintage bits and pieces, such as fly swatters, cooking utensils, tools and a nifty whistle. I even apologized under my breath when tossing things into the garbage; it seemed oddly disrespectful.

When I couldn’t find my telephone, I plugged in a perfectly good phone that I found in the kitchen drawer. My sister called me on my cell phone and said that she thought it was weird that my land line number was the same as the old woman’s. I questioned her of course, and she told me to listen to my answering machine. I didn’t realize that the phone recording system was on with her voice. I thought I had the standard greeting through the telephone company.

After a few coats of paint, new curtains, my personal effects and my own voice on the answering machine, I began to feel more at home rather than a guest of an old woman I had never met. I am feeling less jumpy and apprehensive.

My bond with the old woman has just begun. In the fall, it was difficult to know what grew outside, but now that spring has arrived, it is evident that she had a profound connection with the earth, leaving her legacy through an abundance of flowers, herbs and fruit trees.

To wake up and walk through the yard every day is like being a child on Christmas morning and opening presents from a mysterious plump man in a red suit. I never know what to expect. I have a great deal of knowledge about herbs and flowers from this area, but I don’t know what she planted. It is purely delightful to stumble upon these earthly treasures. She cultivated multiple varieties of mint, lemon balm, asparagus, onions, chives, rhubarb, red and black raspberries, elderberries, grapes, an assortment of roses, globe thistle, poppies, bleeding hearts, tulips, daffodils, peonies, irises, bee balm, fox glove, hyacinth, phlox, daisies, black eyed susans, lilies, lilies of the valley, johnny jump ups, lupine, gladiolus, yarrow, lilacs, forsythia, jack in the pulpit, violets and there are many more to be discovered.

She worked diligently to grow such magnificence, using each nook and cranny wisely, including delicate purple and white flowers and irises bordering the pond. I eagerly don mosquito netting and gloves and work attentively weeding and caring for her legacy. As I witness each blossom, my bond with the old woman whom I never met is strengthened. I honor her each time I dig into the earth. I anticipate each bud, imagining what it will be before it opens.

Now I know her; we met in the garden. Her flowers and herbs live on and bring joy and beauty into my life. Bees, hummingbirds and butterflies lavish in the sweet nectar made possible by her and each heady blossom offers fresh inspiration in each stage of life and death.

Morning Glory

It is a toss up as to whether my favorite flower is the Daisy or Sunflower. I can’t decide. Next are Morning Glories because no matter how hard I try, I can never mix the paints quite right to get that amazing bluish purple color on my palette. This is also true of Blue Jay and Indigo Buntings.


One morning – in the early days of new motherhood – I sat on the steps of my porch sipping coffee, embracing my exhaustion from being up all night with my newborn son, because he was inquisitive, not sleepy, not screaming, not demanding...We both sort of sat together dreamily thinking..."okay... here we are....wow..."

My son, cradled on the outside of my body rather than inside the womb, lay with his head resting against my heart… being tired that morning was strangely delicious. I stared at a Morning Glory that crept up the wrought iron railing beside me; it took my breath away as I honestly realized that even on my best day as an artist....the true beauty of nature cannot be duplicated on the canvas...only honored....and imprinted within.