FLORALS? FOR SPRING? GROUNDBREAKING.
stop and smell the roses, or whatever
The time between the Gregorian New Year and Nevruz or Verza is always strange for me, historically difficult. I am a spring baby, born only days after the equinox during a horrendous storm. My mother always reminds me that March is an unpredictable month, the weather swinging from sun to storm. Some of the Earth is still thawing by the time I arrive.
And each year, when the Western calendar turns to a fresh page, it’s like I am preparing to be birthed again. But I like the warm inside of Mami’s belly. And I am stubborn. And I don’t want to make my way out.
Many moons ago, when I only wrote poetry, I wrote this about spring:
nana used to tell me death comes in the fall but I kill something every spring— shape it into some kind of blessing go inside, where the terror lies make a home CALL IT A BIRTHDAY
I never did like spring—its tumultuous moods, its thick and humid breath. I preferred (and still prefer) the crisp air of fall—the fresh start of a school year. But I’ve started to treasure the spring for its blossoms and changes, for the rituals around Eid and Easter and Verza too.
This year, I put on my verore on that traditional Albanian Summer’s Eve—a day handed down to me by my pagan ancestors. I am meant to wait for the swallows to appear; only then can I break my verore free from my wrist and hang it on a tree branch for the birds to find.
But spring has been more hot and cold this year. I haven’t spotted a swallow yet. I am still wearing the verore, and summer is sneaking up on me, and I am still waiting to turn to my new page.
Dearest reader, I have been going through it—on every plane imaginable. And it’s been difficult to commit to words—much more difficult to share them publicly.
So today, I am giving you something different—something I needed: the flowers.
I grew up watching farmers struggle up and down the mountains with their donkeys. Mami says we humans burden the donkey’s back—with sacks of flour, with stones, with water, with harvests. We may labor, but they carry our weight.
She says eventually the donkey’s back breaks. She says this to me as a metaphor—a metaphor for marriage that takes a toll, for love that breaks you down, for the final crushing weight that forces you to either flee the farm or lay down and die.
The burro’s tail hangs above us in the greenhouse. It grows out of the soil, and hangs over its pot, reaching once again towards the ground.
A few steps later, we fall in love with this bloom.
Do you only look at flowers? Or do you dare caress them?
This one looks to us like a soft and ripe peach, but its petals are the sturdiest I’ve ever touched—thick like leather around a gooey center. Mami is like this too—soft and sturdy and gooey in the center.
The gallery is closed today, but it doesn’t matter because its doorway is framed by these luscious bushes. Mami mistakes the flowers for trëndafila, but these flowers are so much more beautiful than roses. She can’t wait to hold one. And these are the softest to touch.
They fall apart in our hands, soft petals detaching from their center like it’s time to let go. Or maybe they are at their end, unable to hold on any longer.
I am like this sometimes. Tired and fragile and barely holding on—still soft as I hit the ground. I have been like this for months. Years, maybe.
I wonder what it might feel like to be an insect instead of a flower. To be fed instead of doing the feeding. I want to land into a soft bed of yellow, lay there for a while.
Or maybe I’d choose to bury myself into a pale lavender planet of petals. Or the fuchsia fields of life-everlasting.
I’d like to think I might choose the flower that looks most like home. This one looks just like me, like the land that birthed me and each one of my ancestors. This one is the poppy. Self-seeding. Resilient. A survivor.
Here is my country—a red and black field.
Here is my other country—beyond a border, separated by passport and name and flag.
Here is Palestine too.
But I might instead choose to wander amongst the pink knotweed.
And gracefully climb the fine spines of golden lace.
Or maybe I’d choose to mingle with the forget-me-nots, which I was only told were a symbol of remembrance. Though people may associate them with death for that reason, the Victorians more commonly used them as a symbol of devotion.
Last year, my friend told me they want no love if it’s not reciprocal devotion. Their mouth gave me words for the love I’m only learning now, the love I only now know is possible. The kind of love I am still learning to accept. The kind of love I know Mami never received.
But it is spring. And things are changing. And the land will change too, beyond May and into June.
I might just nestle myself into the unexpected bloom of a Southern magnolia between the thickest green. I might just allow myself to be held.
Beautiful 💘