Tag: flowers

Floriade and Friendship

Many a weekend is spent on housework and chores. That’s a fact of life for those of us who work full-time. But there’s more to life than dishes and socks. Weekends also need to include recreational activities to recharge us.

This week my dear friend Heidi announced she would come to visit. We live about 110 km from each other but even with this relatively short distance in Australian terms, we don’t see each other often. I suggested going to Floriade, a Canberran institution which is held every year in September. She readily agreed.

Floriade is a celebration of spring held at Commonwealth Park each year. An overall theme is selected for the various garden bed designs. This year Floriade features 12 large garden beds highlighting Australian Scientists through the contribution they made to a scientific field. The garden bed themes have names such as Molecular Structure, Spectrum and Petri Dish. By carefully observing the design of each bed, the theme presents itself. My favourites were the double helix for DNA and the Atom.

While massed tulips are the main attraction, there are many varieties of flowers in an assortment of colours. There are Pansies, Chrysanthemums, Hyacinths and Violas to name but a few. Each display is painstakingly planted to represent the facets of science it celebrates. It can be difficult to discern the images portrayed from ground level but when viewed from above, the images become clear.

I suggested going on the Ferris Wheel to get a better view. After a long wait, we clambered into a swinging carriage that was to take us up for a better view. From above, it was much easier to discern the themes. It was very windy at the top and we rocked from side to side which made taking pictures difficult. Our best photos came from when we stopped half way up.

Heidi and I had a wonderful time exploring the gardens. We were mesmerised by the variety of colours of the flowers we encountered. Black Pansies and deep purple hyacinths! We had never seen either of these. We marvelled at the ingenuity of the of the garden bed designers.

While the flowers occupied the centre of attention, we still had time to catch up with each other’s lives. We are empty nesters; our children flapping their fledgling wings. We talked about our plans for retirement, the joys of having a dog, our fears for future generations.

There is immense comfort in a friendship that has lasted forty years. Surprisingly, in all that time, we have only lived in the same town for roughly two years. Yet like tulips at the Floriade, our friendship has returned season after season, surprising us with vivid palettes of colour and the patina that the years provide.

Jonquils in July

I make a last-minute dash to the markets for some Batlow apples. Most stallholders are busy sweeping the concrete, packing their unsold wares onto trucks. Everyone is looking forward to getting home and for some, there is a long drive ahead. They have been here since five in the morning, setting up and waiting for the first customers to arrive. I hastily look for my favourite stall and I’m lucky, the girl selling apples is still serving customers.

I take a walk around what’s left of the markets, buy some mushrooms and am given an extra bag of woodland browns to take home. These late saunters on a Saturday morning, when the place empties, are my idea of bliss and there’s always a bargain to be had.

As I come around the last isle, bright yellow jonquils catch my eye. It is mid-winter, yet here they are, heralding spring. Massed in large plastic buckets, their sweet fragrance borders on pungent. I can’t resist. Two bunches are rolled into tissue paper while I hand over a ten dollar note.

Flowers always brighten my day. I’m drawn to their beauty and fragrance. It turns out there is a reason for this feeling. Flowers can spark the release of dopamine and serotonin in our brain by their bright colours and pleasant smell. There are studies that show that having flowers in the house can lower cortisol levels. They create a relaxed and aesthetically pleasing environment which makes us feel more relaxed. 

Before I knew any of these benefits, I instinctively bought flowers when I felt downhearted. Back in 1987, I spent a rather miserable winter in Berlin. The cloud cover arrived in October and never left for six months. The short days felt like eternal dawn or dusk; it was impossible to tell which. It was during these months that I began the habit of buying flowers every Friday afternoon as I returned from university. The florist around the corner wasn’t cheap but made the most exquisite flower arrangements. They reminded me of the Japanese art of Ikebana. The designs were always minimalist, and they took my breath away. I had very little money left for luxuries, but my Friday ritual never felt like an extravagance.

This memory came flooding back as I purchased my jonquils. While I don’t possess the patience to artistically place flowers in a vase, it doesn’t much matter. A dull winter’s day has been transformed into delight by their smiling yellow faces. And for the next week, there will be guaranteed sunshine every morning.

Cut flowers

Since my house has been on the market, I have bought flowers every week before the next inspection. It makes the dining room table look cheerful and inviting, adding colour and a touch of whimsy. I always choose brightly coloured ranunculus in a riot of hues. There is nothing serious about these flowers, and like gerberas, they make me smile each time I glance at them.

The flowers are grown by a local hobby farmer who brings half a dozen bunches to the local coffee shop each Friday. Her smile is every bit as bright as her flowers. The last time I saw her at the shop, she insisted I take a freshly picked bunch, so that the joy they bring lasts a day or two longer. I thanked her and paid my twenty dollars, an extravagance to some, but I love their impact on my house and mood.

As international flights have enabled cut flowers to be flown around the world so that orchids could be enjoyed mid-winter in Canada or Norway, it feels so much more intimate to buy freshly picked seasonal flowers.

In my twenties, as a student living on a small allowance in Berlin, I bought flowers each week to conjure up the sun in the eternal twilight months of winter. This small weekly ritual helped to soften loneliness and feeling lost in a new city. It brought hope of new life to come in spring, when the clouds would clear, and days lengthen.

Today, I am buoyed by the same message of hope. This period of my life will pass – clouds will part to reveal whatever comes next. I don’t need to know the details yet; all I need to do is to invite grace. And if flowers are to bring me hope and joy, they are worthy of a special place at my table.

The wild garden

Blackbirds sing their songs of love to my crushed heart. I look to the garden you planted only a few years ago and am astonished at the height of the trees. The wind rustles slender silver birches and the leaves of ornamental pears shiver in rapport. Bees head for an overgrown patch of woody lavender, then to the purple snake bush and the rosemary. These are the only flowers in bloom this early in spring, but I can see budding carnations which are only days in the offing. Apart from these blue hues, the garden captures the full range of verdant tones from olive to sage, emerald to St Patrick’s Shamrock green.

The riot of roses that will transform the garden to a perfumed oasis are yet to emerge. I won’t cut their first blush for your bedside this year. The table shall remain bare, a reminder, should I need one, that you are no longer there. The roses will bloom, and I will reminisce, yearning for the gardener who brought life to barren land. Yes, I will see the beauty of the roses and I shall feel the full sting of their thorns.

A summer without you, in the garden you have sown, is hard to envision. It will live on, your creation, even if you are no longer here to tend it. My heavy hands will attempt your work and every flower will remind me of you.

I asked for an untamed garden, a garden of reckless colour, a garden that reflected my heart and you delivered. And now, now that you have left to return to the eternal, I grieve in the wild garden of my soul.