The sacred circle of women who can hold space.
The friend who’s been through it already.
The truth that love reaches beyond space and time, that all things can be loved fully from wherever we are: the garden beds that look bare and brown but which are waking up below the surface. The parts of myself that are waking up, too.
Monk’s Hood. Peony. Black Eyed Susan. Tiger Lily. Day Lily. Iris. Lavender. Hosta. Foxglove. Poppy. Cedar. Lupin. Pearly Everlasting. Strawberry. Raspberry. Rhubarb. Dill. Bleeding Heart. Coral Bells. Crocus. Rose. Lily of the Valley. Snow on the Mountain. Bee Balm. The Ones Whose Names I Never Learned.
I make a bouquet of myself: these flowers, these friends, these dreams that have lain dormant, that have quietly put down roots, and the sunshine and the release of the melt that welcomes the next right thing, and the next, and the next, and the next…