Flower photography is one of those pastimes that I often see as a bit cliché. Spring has sprung. Let’s post all the flower photos. It’s inevitable. However, cliché is so fun sometimes because, well, flowers. They are magic and leave their mark on you.
As a child, nothing ever manifested in quite such a glorious way as our backyard garden. My mother grew beautiful things (she had many talents). Our eclectic, high-altitude heaven included everything from blooming cacti and yucca plants to lilacs, Iris, and my personal favourite, the Bridal Wreath Spirea.
I came across it this morning as bees and butterflies danced their way through the masses of blooms in our neighbour’s yard. There, I found myself slipping through time back to the concrete steps in Colorado Springs where I would belt out You Light Up My Life while the couple next door regretted their lives. Upon completion of the serenade, I picked unending mitts full of delicate, ivory sweetness to stuff into my mother’s best vase.
A few dog walkers and runners asked if I was OK? I couldn’t move, mesmerized by the blankets of blooms.
Flower Photography – A Wayback Machine
Explaining the method of transport I took back to my 8-year-old self proved awkward. How can one’s mind be heaved through time with such drama in a mere second, with a mere whiff, at the whim of a mere 1cm-by-1cm of flower?
The power within that moment awed me. It was as if the tiny buds spoke a bit of Zagavory word magic. (Kat used the ancient Slavic charm in Geist). They enchanted me. The beauties offered me a reprieve from the grumpiness lingering after picking up my taxes from the accountant. I received their message from my mother whom I lost four years ago.
After my visit to 1979, I stood in my own garden. There, amongst the valerian, poppies, and lavender as usual, I found myself so grateful for the quick trip. Sweet spirea portal, how I will always love thee. 🙂