The First Crocus -You are the Sunshine of My Life!

It isn't much, but I am breathless with anticipation, every spring. Our first and only crocus has bloomed. The crocuses that had stayed in this garden from former days were terribly spavined, when I first moved here..they were shrunken blooms, too soft and wilting, and very small. Our new, hybrid set of bulbs has been demolished by squirrels.

The wild croci have gradually improved, and now bloom almost as nicely as commercial hybrids. I found that their humble presence, as Canadian wildflowers, became my focus for so much interesting meditation, due to having photos of my garden to look at, rather than the whole picture. My crocus and lavender made me think of a romantic spring song that I have always loved. I realized that they had been there for thousands of years, recording the history of the land. I have wept with realization, and gratitude, seeing the netted bundle of lavender on an ancients' hair, seeing that these plants had probably been here for all time.

I worry that I am in the blue poodle stage ,though, - you know, the time of life when old dames have to have a row of $200.00 blue poodlles on their sill? Next month, they absolutely must buy the latest in the collection of blue poodles. Ever since I was in my twenties, I have pondered middle age with fear and loathing- would I turn into an idle blue poodle collector? Worse-would I be fat?

Never. Yoga, meditation and good diet would prevent all that. I was determined to be in ultra health, and also I would aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllways be slim. Ugh. Who needed middle age. What bags they were, the ooooooold ladies on the beaches, with bulging tummies and cracked- egg too-long-in-the-saucepan varicose veins marbling their thighs. We young women sneered, hooted, chided, pleaded, dieted, and proseletyzed about slimness and vegetarian diet.

To little effect, our naiive estimate that these were all fat because they were frigid witches did not alter the ill behaviour of our elders. No, they seemed content to live in wallowing sin, it seemed.

I guess they laughed at us, if they were people like myself, and went on.

When menopause hit, I could not believe the difference in size and shape. Initially, I laughed at my bulging stomach , since my culture (yours, too , I guess) had filled me with a youth quest that was supposed to never end.

It took me about 10 years to stop giggling at how I looked. Along with the added (padded ) was my sense of humour- luckily , some insulating warmth along with the water and poundage that my tendons had called in for comfort.

I never thought I would be hit with arthritis - tendonitis, and worked hard at getting rid of it. Like it or not, even yoga, 10BX, meditation and damn good sex do not stop your body from plumping out like a pumpkin, when it needs to.

I guessed that I was very wrong, and mentally apologized to the long- dead grannies whose bags bulged with blue poodle coupons and bags of chocolates.

I have, literally prayed that I would never hit the bluepoodle stage.

I make jokes about blue poodles to my son, who has grown up with my camping about the yuckola stage of life when nothing grows but waistlines and collections of things. I swore that I would never dye my hair blue. It is still a nice auburn, I should not worry.

No, my collections of photos, post-cards, greeting cards and nice, shiny kitchen apples will have to do.

I chose to collect kitchen apples (apple-shaped kitchen things) because my little boy was always, to me, the apple of my eye. I was in danger of becoming the kinder-kitchen-kirke poplin cherry-pie whiz of the beige elite of yesteryear, I imagined. But, something about pyrex apple bakers shaped like apples, and candle apples that I could always use for various festivals, just seemed to please me.




An older and seasoned woman now, I still imagine dancing around with my tiny son in my arms, singing "You are the apple of my eye, that's why I'll always stay with you"....

It is now that my collections of flowers and photos of them have become my darlings, my brief notes to eternity. Little things. Sometimes, I just need a little gem or a potshard.

Luckily I have the internet and my web work. There is a science to scripting which has to be addressed, pretty regulary. The newness of it keeps me from entrenching myself into sentimentality, or retreating into religious esoterica.

I don't want my collections of memories and geo-adventures in horticulture to become stale and dusty like blue poodle rows. I don't want my apples to become too important. My guy buys me apple stuff, and I sell it, so I do not have a monster on my hands.

I guess the old dame stage is a quality retained by ladies of earlier times, who were not expected to work or to do much besides keep Dads' home spotless for him, so he need never worry whn battling it out at the office. All that changed, and I found I was re-designated to the list of "super-moms", or super-women, at least while I was in Toronto. A seeming impossiblity, I worked, supported the apple of my eye, and I kept the house clean, cooked, studied, took dance, yoga and therapy courses, etc.

I see all these stages in life, now, as horticultural additions to the family tree. I may be little and striving, but I will survive and pop back, a renewed record of what has been holy, a sacred soul of the lumen.