Rise from the Ashes: Happy New Year

I never took an interest in gardening until after my father died in January of 2021. He was an avid outdoors person, and no matter the weather, he could be found outside, “fiddling around” in the yard.  

Before my interest, no plant in my possession had ever lived a respectable life. It didn’t make a difference in the amount of care or effort: tap water, rainwater, distilled water, or excessive sunlight to minimal rays. The once vibrant and thriving stalks would succumb to too much of this or not enough of that. It’s not something I’m proud of, but the truth has been known to set folks free.

In the summer of 2021, I decided to revamp a flower bed on the house property my sister and I inherited from our parents. The place I currently reside. After handling affairs that come with the death of a loved one, I grappled and grieved my new position as an adult orphan. Personally, my parents were my Alpha and Omega, and since they both were gone, I felt lost at sea with no anchor.

Gangly weeds and hardened soil, older than me, saturated the flower bed. Thinking of my father, whose skin was the same color of the dark, ruddy soil, encouraged me as I pulled weeds with one hand and wiped the sweat off my brow from the south Louisiana humidity with the other. I replaced the hard dirt with soft, smooth, cool to the touch particles that smelled like the earth and whose title promised miracles. I planted sunflowers and other kernels that vowed to bloom into autumn.

I was optimistic and told a friend.  

“Don’t forget to talk to them,” she said.

Talk?

 Every morning, before the sun made an appearance while the grass sparkled from the night dew, I peeked out the window and whispered sweet nothings, poetry, bible verses, and affirmations of their beauty and strength. I would close the window, realizing I was speaking to myself as well. This daily act of communion was restorative, nurturing.

Day by day, inch by inch, sprouts burst through the soil like moths out of a cocoon. Still, I remained a skeptic. My history preceded itself, and every morning I held my breath, praying I would see flourishing stalks and not wilted ones.

Then, in October 2021, a decades-old oak tree with the girth of Black Santa fell on the house. A crushing number of debris, wood, and shingles landed in the flower bed, burying any signs of life. The damage, albeit significant, could’ve been catastrophic, but it wasn’t. Still, the demise of my flowers decimated on my watch unnerved me.

My early morning talks morphed from sweet nothings to promises of restoration. One day I noticed that a couple of the sunflowers were sticking out beneath the debris, refusing to perish under the weight of the rubble. The stalks grew thick as the burnt orange and canary yellow petals magnified each day. They remained smothered with debris for a couple of months but still managed to flourish.

The year 2021 started with the death of my personal titan, my father. It ended with the deaths of literary and academic titans Greg Tate, bell hooks, and Joan Didion. Each of their works has informed me, and their loss is insurmountable. Whatever emotional, physical, financial, or psychological suffering you endured in 2021, like my flowers, may you rise from the ashes and emerge stronger than before.  

Asé

P.S. How do you plan to bring in the new year? What are your family traditions? I will be re-reading ‘The Street’ by Ann Petry, the edition featuring the recent introduction by writer Tayari Jones. I burn incense on New Years’ Day as a space cleansing practice. I will watch The Great Soul Food Cook-Off on Discovery Plus and other comforting shows and partake of the traditional southern foods, black-eyed peas, yams, cabbage, and drink something bubbly. I may journal and write. This year, I published here, here, here, and here.  

And, I may “fiddle around” in the yard.

Please share your New Year’s traditions. Most importantly, stay safe. XOXO

P.S.S. RIP Cicely Tyson and Betty White