This morning’s sun is not the honey light
of summer, thick with golden dust and slow
as syrup pouring from a jug. It’s bright,
but thin and cold, and slanted steep and low
across the hillsides. Frost is blooming white,
these flowers forced by icy winds that blow
as hard this morning as they blew all night.
Too cold for rain, but far too dry for snow.
And I am restless, pacing to and fro
enduring winter’s grip that holds us tight.
But my camellias, which somehow know
what weather to expect—they’re always right—
have broken bud. Now scarlet petals glow
outside the window where I sit and write.
~Tiel Aisha Ansari “Camellias” from Dervish Lions
Near a shrine in Japan he’d swept the path
and then placed camellia blossoms there.
Or — we had no way of knowing — he’d swept the path
between fallen camellias.
~Carol Snow “Tour”
Camellia and crocus blossoms are hardy enough to withstand our current low temperatures, defying freezing winds and hard frosts with their resilience.
Inevitably, their petals eventually will begin to brown at the edges and wither.
On windy days, the full camellia blooms plop to the ground without warning, scattering about like a nubby floral throw rug. They are too bulky to step on, so the tendency is to pick a path around them, allowing them the dignity of a few more days before being swept off the sidewalks.
These fallen winter blossoms become almost sacred, gracing the paths the living still must navigate. They are indeed grounding for the passersby, a reminder that our time to let go will soon come too. As we restlessly pursue our days and measure our steps, we try to carefully make our way around their fading beauty.
As a reminder to us, there is an unexpected blessing bestowed
in their budding,
in their blooming,
in their ebbing away.
Mortals, born of woman,
are of few days and full of trouble.
They spring up like flowers and wither away;
like fleeting shadows, they do not endure.
Do you fix your eye on them?
Job 14: 1-3
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
because the breath of the Lord blows on them.
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
but the word of our God endures forever.
Isaiah 40:7-8
This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
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