Last winter, while my husband, my mother, my friends and readers, my doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, a housekeeper at Stanford–everybody played a part and everybody played it well in taking good care of me, strengthening me, being there for me, and I am so grateful–I, of course, could take no care whatsoever of my collection of prized amaryllises. They were the least of our worries. They were outside under an awning, up high on an old picnic table so as to be out of reach of the snails that would devour them.
But that also meant the winter rains couldn’t reach them. And when I came home, I could not lift the weight of a water jug as my long incision healed ever so slowly. The others remembered to once or twice each over the months.
When at last I could do my part, the pots just sat there with the bulbs desiccated. I was sure most of them were dead.
A few were. But the others, I could feel that the bulbs still had some heft left between my fingers, enough for hope’s sake. So I kept on watering those pots long past the point that leaves should have started to show already. They did not. I watered anyway. Throw in a little Monty Python: “I’m not dead yet!” I hadn’t been, so they weren’t allowed to be either–have faith in that heft and keep trying.
This went on for months.
I finally got a few leaves here and there. I figured that was the most one could ask for, really; if they could produce four, the chances were high they’d bloom next year, and that would be wonderful, but if it had to be the year after that, then so be it.
I really had wondered if they were dead after all. It had just been so long with no response I could see.
The first one opened today, is opening today, the flower smiling wider and wider in slow motion as I type this.
It is standing there reminding me what I so easily forget, how much Life is a gift, beautiful and powerful beyond all understanding. It is not limited, no matter what our expectations may be at any one time. The life force is strongest when we hear its call to cheer someone else’s day–as so many brightened mine when I was in dire need.
Pouring water into flowerpots. Typing an email to someone lying in a hospital bed, sending up a prayer, Thinking Good Thoughts. A small moment to each patient bulb, and then another, and then another, adding up.
To pure joy.
Thank you, everybody.
And remembering, as I write this, the One who endured all, rose above all, and loves all, Happy Easter!