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She could grow anything from seed. She could take tiny
seeds with her fingertips, place them into the soil, and
coax them to grow. She would carefully water the soil and
whisper, ???You??™re going to love the sunshine. You??™re going
to feel the rain. And you are really going to adore the
rainbow!???
I watched this mysterious woman, and I
marveled at the love she gave to each tiny seed. It was as
though the love that she had longed for, and never
experienced, poured out of her heart, and into the seed and
soil. As if in a strange intimacy, she pulled grace and
beauty from the depths, and the little plants would burst
forth, reaching for light and air.
There was some sort of hushed beauty
within her. A secret longing that no one had ever seen nor
touched. It was as if she were too shy or too scared to
awaken, perhaps knowing that once set free, she would become
out of control. I caught a glimpse of that passion when her
anger became unleashed, and it could be dangerous to be the
one within her grasp. Yet, she was always gentle with
growing things.
She was a mystery to me, this
repressed, passionate, secret woman, who gave up on life
early within my childhood. She seldom bought a living
plant. She combed garden catalogues looking for seeds. She
mixed her own soil, and she started those seeds in any
container available. To my mother, anything that had a
bottom and an open top was a container.
She started seed in empty egg cartons,
milk cartons, and even eggshells. She especially loved to
start tomatoes in the eggshells of geese. She??™d make a tiny
drainage hole with a needle, start the seed in her homemade
soil, and when it came time to transplant into the garden,
she would gently crush the shell, right before she placed
the plant into it??™s permanent home.
???Eggshells sweeten the soil,??? she would
say.
Where she found the African Violet
seeds, I??™ll never know. I watched her mix just the right
amount of soil ingredients, placing the invisible seed at
just the right depth. Then she watered with care, and
watched it grow. It seemed to me that, overnight, the tiny
plants would appear, strong and affirming, to lighten up her
life. I loved to watch my mother??™s face, as those first
tiny seedlings raised their heads to smile at her.
I suppose that my mother felt safest
with her plants. Plants never told her she was worthless.
Plants asked for little, and they gave back so much. Plants
never came home drunk, like my father did; and they were
never disobedient, as I was.
My mother would often tell me her
secrets for making things grow. I can still hear her voice,
as she shared her magical recipe for compost or discussed
the benefits of one manure over another. I never told her
just how beautiful she was at those moments, with her face
alight with understanding and knowledge.
My mother was a botanist, without a
degree. She was a horticulturist, without a following. She
cared for growing things with great tenderness, and in spite
of the sorrow in her life, I still remember my mother??™s
smile, as some new thing sprang forth before her eyes. I
remember her warm, throaty laugh, when she discovered that
first robin??™s nest in spring. I??™d stand, spellbound with
her, as she counted the eggs that tried so inadequately to
imitate the blue in my mother??™s eyes.
She told me stories filled with longing
and pathos. I would laugh and cry with her, as she spun the
threads of her lost dreams, never daring to hope for a
future. She was brilliant, and she never knew it. She was
a beauty overcome by regret and broken promises. She
dreamed impossible dreams that were never uttered, and even
less fulfilled.
Every once in awhile, that beautiful,
passionate woman would peek out through my mother??™s volatile
journey through life, usually when she was coaxing plants to
come out of the dark??¦and encouraging them to reach for the
light.
**********************
Jaye Lewis is a born again Christian
and award winning writer, who lives and writes in the
Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, USA. Jaye is completing
her first book, entitled Entertaining Angels. Jaye says:
"Entertaining Angels celebrates the spiritual and even the
miraculous events in my life, and the angels who have
blessed me along the way." Write Jaye at
jlewis @ smyth.net
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To read archived stories, click on this link:
http://archives.zinester.com/9516/2004
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Blessings to you today
Bob Johnston
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