The lilacs are about to pop open on the wall of shrubs overshadowing the chicken coop my daughter and husband built last week from the repurposed wood of the disassembled swingset that proudly dominated our backyard for 16 years until it sagged with rot, carpenter ants, and disuse, and the tiny children who once scrambled all over it grew up suddenly to do things like drive my car and ask to keep backyard chickens instead.
It goes so fast. All of it.
Years ago I read the article below and I kept it for its sabbath wisdom, for the way it invites me to live in time and to pay attention. These fleeting few days a year, the lilacs' heady odor fills my yard, seeps through the open windows of my home, and even blankets me in my bed as I sleep. Lilacs have become for me another way to mark time, to live in gratitude.
I've missed the lilacs before. This year I'm here for it.
LIFE & LILACS
June 22, 1996 | ELLEN GOODMAN and Boston Globe
The lilacs have gone by. I take note of this with an unexpected snap of regret as I take my morning commute from the kitchen to the driveway.
The flowers had made their annual appearance on the bushes that stand beside my backdoor. For two weeks, they had permeated the air with a seductive promise.
I planned to take up their offer, to spend time in their company. But now the last of the blooms has turned a crusty deadhead shade of beige. And I had paid only the most transient of visits, enjoyed only a contact high, a small whiff of their possibilities.
This morning, it is the absence of lilacs that finally stops me in my tracks. I brake belatedly to pay the toll of attention to what is now missing. A year’s worth of lilacs, an entire life span of flowers.
I repeat the phrase in my mind: The lilacs have gone by. It is what gardeners say. But in fact, the lilacs stayed in one place and I had gone by them, hurrying, on the way, on the move.
Behind me in this small city garden there are irises in bloom. The peonies are on the way, the ants already feasting the sweet sap off their buds. They will be followed by day lilies and black-eyed Susans, by asters and fall. Is it seasonal, this consciousness of the racing pulse of daily life? Is the awareness of flowers “going by” more than a banal metaphor for transience? Is it, rather, some alarm coded into our DNA as if it were a clock?
The days are still lengthening, but lately my friends have been wistful about time, the common currency of their lives. They talk of spending too much time on what are dubbed essentials. Too many hours seem to be taken out of their week, as if the week were a paycheck, too much withheld before they get to some small luxury, a moment of discretionary spending.
At lunch last week, a woman not given to maudlin cost accounting had figured out on her actuarial table that she has probably 30 more chances to see the pink ladyslippers in the woods. Thirty is a lot said the woman who is approaching 50 herself. But it is also, suddenly, finite.
This morning, dangling out of my briefcase is a plastic bag of excess black-eyed Susans that I dug up in a rush last night. Flowers for a friend. On the phone last week, we talked about the sense of channel-surfing through life. Work, click, kids, click, parents, click, errands, click. With split-second timing it was possible to cover everything – but only if we stay on the surface. What happens when life becomes a list, we asked each other? When even the pleasurable things become items to check off? What happens when we are getting through the days? What are we getting through and to? But our thoughts were interrupted by call-waiting.
Sometimes, you catch a glimpse of something in human nature that longs to spend time lavishly. To relish as well as to produce. On a late spring morning, there is a wistful reminder in this natural datebook. How quickly things “go by.” Life and lilacs.
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