There’s this old flower bed needing attention. So I toil the soil and add some fresh mulch so new roots could enter. As my spade hits a stone, the grating sound met with my idle thoughts. Images of those souls whose lives were violently exterminated in that quaint town, it stings and I can’t see. Hot tears run down my cheek, I can barely breathe.
Almost unconsciously continue planting and think “Who taught me how to plant?” My Nana comes to mind. It was one Easter morning and she had me plant some flowers around a bird bath, at my childhood home where I grew up in Connecticut, just 20 min. from Newtown. Easter was the season of miracles, and we would plant for new births sake. But today 20 children were being entered into the ground, funerals for six brave teachers, the mother of the gunman and the suicidal gunman himself, only 20 years of age.
Each flower so delicately seeded and formed and now one needs to water them. I can’t help but think of the violent child. Why … why kill? What was he thinking in his tormented mind? And I look at a lavender flower just planted; its name; Impatiens, it’s pedal is bruised and so was he.
I read about the meaning of flowers and their colors. White; Think of me… Lilac Violet ; Joy of youth Pink ambition and Red consolation, love and forever mine. It hits me, these flowers, this action is dedicated to all of them….in all of us.
There is a language, little known,
Lovers claim it as their own.
Its symbols smile upon the land,
Wrought by nature’s wondrous hand;
And in their silent beauty speak,
Of life and joy, to those who seek
For Love Divine and sunny hours
In the language of the flowers.
–The Language of Flowers, London, 1875
As I reflect on in this moment of time…I will remember always the brave actions of these teachers, those precious faces imprinted in my heart, and the tormented soul who needs radical forgiveness.