Flowers & Meaning

Winter Flowers

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The use of fresh flowers is encouraged as a way of engaging in the beauty and dignity of the celebration of Mass. Artificial flowers and plants should not be used. Dried flowers, ferns and sprays may be used, particularly in winter months.   ~   Flowers and Decorations, Liturgy Office, UK

 

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The King!

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          Early morning’s sunlight dimples. The winds in playful delight through the wetsilver of leaves. A child tumbles in with a Rose of Sharon in full bloom. For a reason wreathed in mists as yet, I felt the bloom ask for its place in our home. So, I gently placed it at the foot of my Our Lady of Fatima statue. I thought the flower was another name for our Blessed Mother. But when I looked it up, to my surprise, the Rose of Sharon instead symbolised Our Lord!

Rose of Sharon

          My mind then traced the dip in the path to yesterday morning. I had been awakened very, very early by a lone robin’s delirious rhapsody of joy on a branch of purple green, just outside our window. Their song here is usually a gentle morning lilt, tenderly respectful of a slumberer in the last wisps of dreams.

          But not yesterday. The little one sang his heart out to the purple grey skies awaiting the early blush of sunrise. His joyburst startled me out of sleep. Barely registering his exuberant cadence, a song burst from my own spirit:

Hark the herald angels sing

Glory to the newborn King!

          On and on, the two lines of the Christmas hymn trilled  and trilled within me, willing me to join my spirit to its jubilant notes. I hesitated. What madness was this, at the wind down of a ragged two weeks that scraped at my soul, now Christmas in July?

          What Christmas is this?

          The little bird sitting in the tree that bears stars saw what my spirit has yet to grasp. A new wind has begun to weave its way through the disfigured pain~shards of broken dreams and lives.

          Even as the world weeps in its tortures, the King is already here.

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The First Bloom

I am deep in work when my daughter rushes in to tell me that the first zinnia of the year has finally bloomed. Oh, what an up and down we’ve had with zinnias this year. They are our family flowers, along with jasmines and my husband’s roses. Our zinnias have a mind of their own. They seldom bloom where we sow their seeds in the flower beds. In months past, they’ve taken to blooming just outside my double panel windows, by the clothes line, and the ultimate – right in the drain by the kitchen, watered by rain and everything that traverses our drains.

The zinnias are a poignant reminder of a time we took for granted a little. A time when we thought happiness and children born were here to stay and to see us off one day when we were old.

Today, when they bloom, and I watch them sway stiffly in the warm birdsong breezes, these colorful pretties remind me of a Life Book closed on earth here but now blooming across the sandbar. There is sadness. But there is hope too. Hope that comes from the life lost to us that now thrives in a world beyond us yet close by. The hope

that is now a Lamp to our feet.

We’ve sowed the zinnias in his resting place, amidst the wild grasses, jungle flowers and other sleeping souls. With the deluge of the past week, I hope the zinnias have birthed, so that from now on, purple pink orange yellow white magenta pretties will cuddle him and all the others all year through, till the end of time.