Tilda’s tulips are blooming
Cindy on April 26th, 2008
“Gardens are about waiting and about hope as much as they are about anything.” — Robert Benson, Digging In
Last fall, I posted a short essay about the tulip bulbs Doug and I planted around our patio on an unseasonably warm November afternoon. The bulbs had been given to us by Tilda, a dear friend and longtime neighbor who’d found herself widowed, quite suddenly, a month earlier. Doug and I were pedaling our way home on a bike ride when we’d spotted Tilda working the garden beds in her front yard. We were relieved to see our friend keeping busy, despite her recent loss. So when she asked if we’d like to have all the bulbs she didn’t have room to plant, well, how could we say no? Once again, this good neighbor of ours reminded me that we’re all in this thing together.
Planting tulip bulbs at sundown in an expired November garden is the most audacious act I can think of. Before blooming, bulbs must remain dormant in the cold winter soil, enduring months of total darkness. Bulbs of any kind demand that we believe in possibility. And in the future. I’m reminded of a favorite quote from Sue Monk Kidd‘s memoir, When the Heart Waits: “Too many of us panic in the dark,” Kidd writes. “We don’t always understand that it’s a holy dark, and that the idea is to surrender to it and journey through to real light.”
Likewise, grieving the loss of a loved one is difficult work. You can’t put a timetable on healing. Late last year, I’d also lost my only uncle to pancreatic cancer, and my mother became ill. For several months I’d lost all sense of joy, hope, and enthusiasm. It was a terribly long winter, and there were times when I couldn’t even imagine why anything would bother to flower again.
But now, here we are in late April. Our lawns are greening up, and Tilda’s gorgeous pink and magenta tulips are blooming outside our garden room windows. Riding my bike past Tilda’s place this morning, I noticed that her tulips, too, have pushed their way up through the soil, in vivid color, bright with the promise of new beginnings. I am so grateful for this gift. — Cindy La Ferle
