I always have a soft spot in my heart for the zinnias this time of year. Most of the other summer flowers are long gone by now, but it’s nearly December, and the zinnias are still blooming. Being a summer girl, I’ve grown to appreciate their willingness to hang around when the days and nights begin cooling. Even though I’ve lived in Phoenix for nearly 40 years, letting go of summer is still hard for me. As a child, summer meant freedom; freedom from having to sit at a wooden desk all day and freedom to move out into the world beyond the rural Nebraska town of 2,000 where I grew up. My summers now aren’t much different than the rest of the year as far as work goes, but there is a lightness about summer that feeds my heart. The longer days invite me to arise earlier and stay up later, drinking in more of life than usual. They draw me to parts of the planet that have more water than the desert, replenishing me just enough to return to my everyday life in a dry place, including my garden.
One thing I’ve noticed about the zinnias is that their color fades from the exterior petals toward the middle of the flower. The heart maintains its vibrant color until right before the flower begins to dry up and go to seed. I don’t know of any other flower that fades this way and I find it such an extraordinary metaphor. I love the bright orange and magenta flowers in full bloom, but there is something even more poignant about the bright center still holding on to its original hue.
Over the weekend I visited with my 94 year old mother-in-law, who is a zinnia in her own right. She struggles with the day-to-day activities most of us take for granted; walking, standing, eating, remembering. It’s hard for her to hold onto a thought for more than a few seconds, and our conversations involve considerable repetition. Her waking world, television, and dream state are blending together more and more. Yet, even in her confusion, she has the heart of a zinnia. After going over and over the same dream, and responding patiently from my own heart each time, she said, “Thank you. I needed someone to talk to me like this.” Then she thanked me for being so good to her over the years, and I thanked her for the same. Her petals are diminishing rapidly and one of these days she will fade away from us for good. I know that when her time comes, her heart will be strong and vibrant until her last heartbeat, like the summer zinnias that linger on into the dark nights of a desert winter.
What an important metaphor and well-told. Thank you for this.
This writing feels very close to me. I met mom at a day care center today and pushed her in a wheel chair a few blocks to a foot appointment so I wouldn’t have to get her in and out of the car too many times. When I drove her back to her home, I said, “Well we made it and you are back home.” She said, “Thank you!” The few words that she says to me are so special. She shuts her eyes much of the time now but she always smiles when she hears my voice and does look at me.
Becky
You have silenced me again. Granny is such an amazing piece of my heart…
I remember visiting your mother-in-law years ago when she was still living in her own home. I saw her beautiful essence then and I see it now in your image.
At age 100 my mother is also smiling and thanking us. How wonderful it is that these two women haven’t let their interior petals fade. Their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren are still taking in the color.
Excellent & touching allegory, Mary!
Granny & zinnias are strong and beautiful.