noisy village: mother may

the wild flowers that speak to us

It’s the first Thursday in May and I’m writing from my kitchen table, a welcome break from the rain outside my window where the grass is getting tall and the dandelions are opening up and the violets have made a perfect purple carpet around the old tree stump in the corner nook where the house makes an L-shape. The wild geraniums are out, the iris leaves have broken through, the rose bush is sending out supple green leaves, and every apple tree from the front yard to the bottom of the hill is in full blossom. I can see feathery yarrow leaves patchworked across the field and at the bottom of each tall, brown, dried constellation of queen anne’s lace flower I can spy a firework of wild carrot leaves. I’ve been walking in the mornings and the shamrocks of red clover leaves have started filling out the grassy roadside between the dirt and the river. This morning I walked a little extra to get to a spot where there’s a blooming patch of summer snowflake that I gathered a bunch of to bring home and put in a vase on the counter. Soon I’ll spot the daisy and the buttercup before they grow tall enough to become homes to spittle bugs and the most perfect decorations for the most anticipated party that is Vermont-in-June.

Is it a strange thing to say that I think about these flowers a lot? That they occupy a great deal of my headspace, that I greet them often, that I truly believe they keep me company? Well, it’s true. Silly or not the flowers are my very good friends. I’ve often wondered if I’m just thinking about them or if perhaps they’re chatting with me, in a soft, whispering, wordless way that feels less like a conversation and more like an opening of the heart.

About 8 years ago, and I remember the specific season so well because River was just a baby on my hip, I sat on the hill picking violets. I picked and picked and Henry came and went and River nibbled on them from his chubby fist and I was filled with a loving, flowery warmth and contentment. A feeling so complete I can feel a glimmer of it just remembering. That night, I had dreams of violets. I made tea and violet honey and violet lemonade and dried the leaves for an herbal body oil. Have you ever smelled drying violet leaves? They almost give off the scent of ripe melon – so delicious I will have to pick up a handful and very gently crush them in my hands and take a deep breath anytime I have them close. They have all kinds of benefits for our physical body but we’re not going to talk about those today. Today I want to talk about how I’ve come to know violets as the patron flowers of a young mother’s heart.