Plant Spirituality

I attempted to put myself to bed “early,” in other words, before 1a. I was tired, I was riding early in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep.

I sensed someone was sad. I tossed all night. I woke up countless times. At 5a, I checked the time, still feeling like something wasn’t right in someone’s world. It had been nagging me for a couple weeks but the last 24 hours felt different.

Sent off a quick email and went riding. I thought about intuition. I thought about a conversation with Orion on the subject – is it really hyper-awareness? Perceiving minute changes in the environment and patterns? Subconsciously assimilating it seamlessly…

My parents called while I was out but I had left them a message the day before. I had called to request their help with one of my crazy harebrained ideas (crazy ideas are best executed with the help of others – I’d like to take this moment to remind them that they’ve enlisted me several times – with such ridiculousness to include but not limited to paper mache, felt, and leather gluing projects). And like them, my ideas come brilliantly, in a flash and last minute.

And while they were in fact returning my call, they were also calling to tell me that my Aunt was unexpectedly found dead this morning, they were headed to the house. My cousins, my uncle at home.

My little cousins, not so little, towering over me, graduating from college. So proud of them both for all they’ve accomplished because I think it is fair to say, it has not been easy. And every step of the way, I have attributed their manners, their success, their strength, their humor in the face of so much difficulty – to their mother. She would tolerate nothing less.

Their tiny framed, red haired, blue eyed mother subsisting on a diet of potato chips. Their tenacious, fierce, strong willed… shall we say stubborn, incredibly bright, sharp Irish mother. Their mother, who I loved so very much, her attitude and approach to life always undertaken un-apologetically.

As I rode quietly by myself this morning in the cool crisp air, warming my leaden legs slowly, keeping my eyes out for Amy, sans coffee, before most people had ventured out in the world, I thought about death.

Someone is dying, someone died, someone is going to die. And they would continue to live.

The laryngitis from which I am suffering once again, I inherited from my grandmother who lost her voice annually, the elaborate garden plan and timelines I developed this year, eerily, look identical to my pop-pop’s notes – they live on through all of us.

When the sadness, anger and grief subside, she will live on in Kevin and George, and we should all be thankful for this.

So in celebration of my Aunt Mary’s life, I’m planting flowers in her memory.

My heart soothed by the soil in my hands, the earthy fragrance of plant life lifting into the air as I pull apart roots.