When You Are Miserable...

Do you ever read something and have it stops you in your tracks? When I read the following quote by Rumer Godden I dropped the book to my lap and stared into space for a time-

"How to be happy when you are miserable. Plant Japanese poppies with cornflower and mignonette, and bed out petunias among sweet peas so that they shall scent each other. See the sweet pea coming up... Drink very good tea out of a thin Worchester cup of a color between apricot and pink..."

I thought,  I have planted all those things, every one. And I have a fine, thin tea cup between apricot and pink. 

 Here is one of the poppies that came from my seeds, a delicate grayish lavender that looks slightly moody. Behind it is a wash of blue cornflowers that self-sow from ones my Grandma Tommy gave me years ago.

 At their feet are petunias the color of blackberries washed with fresh cream. It's funny, because I rarely plant petunias, and I have a hard time growing poppies, but here they are.

 Beside them is my version of Mignonette. The one mentioned in the quote was almost certainly the tiny flower that Napoleon brought back to Josephine from his travels. It is a rather plain little flower that is said to have an intense fragrance. Mine is also French, but it is a wild cultivar of strawberry with the same name, and tiny thimble sized fruits that have all the flavor of a giant store-bought berry in one small bite.

 I adore sweet peas and their perfume. This is an antique French variety called "Guisante De Olor" that I grew from seed. It has flowers that start a pristine white with only a tint to its edges and then age to a dusty violet. The fragrance is what I imagine Marie Antoinette's face powder would have smelled like~ delicately floral with a clean talc undertone. Very fresh and light.

 Beneath it is a wandering nest of more petunias lost in a mist of cilantro flowers.

 For the good cup of tea there is the place in my shady bed where I most like to sit and contemplate the day.

 And I have the perfect cup to drink from.

     So, am I miserable? No. Melancholy, yes. Wistful? Perhaps. It has been a big year so far. My oldest son and his wife have found some land they want to buy and it will be even farther away. I had my middle son marry and move out; my youngest graduated from homeschool, and then my husband found out he had throat cancer. I take him to radiation every day, and he has had some chemo. This week he began to lose clumps of hair and I tried to shave him to disguise it. 

   The land my oldest boy found is a veritable paradise of waterfalls and giant trees, and I am so excited for them. My middle son is happy as a lark with his dear wife and their new life and I thank God they have each other. My youngest got an amazing job making airplanes and has already been made a team manager. I am so very proud of him. My husband has a little over two weeks of treatment left and the doctors keep saying this cancer has a 90% cure rate. God is good, so good. But sometimes... sometimes you just feel a stillness in your soul.

    It is the kind of thoughtful pondering that makes a walk in a flower garden so calming. Now, I know that someone out there will say, "Oh, well, good for her. I wouldn't be sad if I had flower beds and pretty china. She must be rich!" Some people always equate happiness with a monetary value. Lest you wonder, the flowerbeds are the effort of many years, much hard work, and they labor for me even under severe neglect. Most of my flowers are hand-me-downs, or grown from cheap packets of seed. There is no magical hired gardener lurking beyond the picture frame to maintain things while I waltz about every so often in my flowing gown. I mean, have you seen the weeds that creep insidiously into the pictures? Even the beauteous teacup is humble. It cost $3 at Goodwill.

   So perhaps the real secret behind Godden's words is the effort that is necessary to make it come to life. My seeds were planted in the gloom of February. My sweet peas only showed their tiny faces the second week of June. Having beauty takes effort, healing misery takes time, being happy is a lifelong work. 

    In her book, A House with Four Rooms, Rumer Godden said, 

"It is the small things that helped, taken one by one and savored. Make yourself savor them." 

   Am I happy now that I have all the things said to cure miserable feelings? I am the kind of happy that is quiet and filling; the kind called peace.

I am savoring.