The Language of Love; an action of love dedicated to all of them, in all of us.

My GardenJust got in from planting. It’s a new home for us and well, the yard has been unkempt for awhile.

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.

Beauty amongst the bruised pedals

I read about the meaning of flowers and their colors. White; Think of meLilac 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.

Brother Son

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends”


About Brenda

"Brenda adores the birds. She is enchanted with their grace, their beauty. It was the birds and being out among them that gave her the peace she so needed and forged a new passion She uses a camera to capture those incredible moments, to savor them and share them with others. For her the camera was freedom. Brenda spent her life healing others, and dealing with incredible pain and despair. The world of birds and nature and photography was what she turned to in order to see the beautiful side of the world" -Eric Curtis Cummings
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

9 Responses to The Language of Love; an action of love dedicated to all of them, in all of us.

  1. Beautiful and heartfelt. My Nana taught me about gardening as well:)

  2. Jo Heroux says:

    Beautiful. Sad. You’re amazing.

  3. Terri Warner says:

    The garden speaks it all. A sensitive soul tells of raw emotions to the soil that still grows beauty. Now, that is amazing grace!

  4. Anne says:

    You write such heartwarming thoughts here. Loved it!

  5. Joyce says:

    I never learned how to garden, so I guess I can’t teach anyone either. I love your cloud photo.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s