Progress to Peony
I hated flowers, to me they represented decay. Something beautiful that was cut down at its height of perfection and never had a chance to fully bask in the sun’s glow. Why would you want to give me something you killed as a representation of adoration, celebration or beauty. There also might have been a tinge of family familiarity, being part Italian, I was revised surrounded by beautiful flowers. Beautiful flowers that never died, changed or wilted, they just had to occasionally be dusted. My grandmother and great aunt’s favorite were some pink roses, with gold glitter edges. They were gorgeous, but don’t tell my bougie friends I think that.
As time progressed, I did love the hydrangeas that lined the drive way of my childhood home, the multitudes of flowers coming together to create a bunch of flowers, but never needing to be cut down to create the illusion of a bunch of flowers. Some were pink, some were blue, just like the queer child inside me, sometimes masc, sometimes femme, but always blooming. I love the shape of the bloom of a hydrangea even before it flowers, the leaves curl in the cold wrapping themselves in a warm embrace. The buds are like a beautiful tear from heart bursting forward as the plant begins to bloom and then the multitudes appear. Gorgeous.
As my life progressed to my twenties and life started really lifing, I started to love the calla lily. Especially the purple ones, flowing from a deep royal hue to near blank canvas white. It was a physical representation of blood letting to me, of ancient healing. Drawing the poised blood of my HIV to make me stronger. Of course, my HIV never drained, but my dependence on substances to cope did. Draining my body of meth, alcohol and other mind numbing substances. Returning to the blank canvas.
Now five years home from prison and I was asked today what my favorite flower is. First thought was calla lily, then after the progression of thought of how do I spell that, that thought deepened into, is that flower from funerals still my favorite? Then the word peony popped uninvited into my head, the universe heard my internal voice. I search what a y looks like and that was exactly the flower that I love. The one I have bought for others these last years of freedom. A flower that similar to a hydrangeas, contains multitudes. So many many petals. Gorgeous.
I still struggle with cutting a flower down at its heights, but not as much (composting helps manage/assuage my guilt). Living in an apartment without a great view, flowers, plants and paintings help bring Mother Nature into my every breathe.