Three Months and Four Lovely, Lingering Poinsettias or: What I've Learned So Far

Ben has been gone for three months now; we said farewell to him in the midst of a windswept autumn. Turning to the natural world for inspiration and solace as we are wont to do, my sense is that grieving through winter-- with its bare bones, spare light, and sharp edges-- is different and perhaps more challenging than grieving in blossoming springtime, in sun-drenched summertime, in mellow autumn-time. We must bundle up better, work a bit harder, step a bit more cautiously, and seek more searchingly for that inspiration and solace.

Four Lovely, Lingering Poinsettias.

On this first afternoon of February, Twenty-Twenty, morning errands completed, domestic chores on temporary hold, I find myself gazing upon-- with equal measures of pride and puzzlement-- our lovely, lingering collection of poinsettias. The plants appear to be botanically bound-and-determined to persevere, nay thrive, through the vagaries of this long winter, to do their poinsettia thing, bestowing color while basking in the languid light of our temperate sun porch. They decked the halls during the holidays, and it looks like they're going to do much the same for Super Bowl Sunday, Groundhog Day, and beyond.

Poinsettia Landscape at Great Swamp Nursery.

Wild poinsettias, shrubby members of the spurge family, cut a sublime swath across mid-elevation, Pacific-facing hillsides from Mexico to Guatemala. Sublime shrubby spurge: this will not mean much to many... but isn't it fun to say it? Legend tells us that the red Flor de Nochebuena traces its association with Christmas to sixteenth century Mexico and continued as seventeenth-century Franciscan friars incorporated the plant into Christmas celebrations. Wild Mexican Flame Flowers were introduced stateside in the 1820s by Joel Roberts Poinsett, United States Minister to Mexico and enthusiastic amateur botanist. Poinsett began stocking specimen plants in his South Carolina greenhouse, and the rest is horticultural history: these imports became known as poinsettias and soon became walloping cultural and commercial successes. Google informs us that upwards of seventy million plants are sold during the annual six-week holiday period. Not bad for the humble-yet-sublime shrubby spurge.

Our Rich Red Poinsettia.

We bought this year's red poinsettia at the Great Swamp Greenhouse: the rich, timeless color, steeped in legend and tradition, reminds us how fortunate we were to share happy holidays and every-days with Ben-- and how blessed we are to carry these memories with us as we move through difficult days. Over time, adventurous gardeners played around with poinsettia colors, producing an impressive palette of bracts beyond traditional red: white, cream, pale green, pink... and orange.

Our Orange Poinsettia.

Wherefore, then, our orange poinsettia? Orange: so different, such a departure from the timeless, traditional, legendary red. Over the past three months, I've learned to accept unexpected change, to acknowledge that things are different now. I've learned that we can pick up shattered shards and fractured fragments of What We Thought Would Be and lovingly piece them together to form something new, something precious to carry with us as we continue on the journey. Orange: it's a color that summons forth resiliency, unwavering strength, optimism in the face of challenges and adversity-- traits that Ben demonstrated with grace throughout his life, throughout his thirty-years-plus-one year here on earth.

Our Marbled Poinsettia.

Our marbled poinsettia is a gift from a friend. How lovely it is, this meeting of red and cream: singular colors mingling to create something distinctive and companionable. Over the past three months, I've learned that aspects of grieving are best and necessarily confronted alone; that indeed, stretches of solitude can be beneficial, healing. But I've also come to appreciate moments of connection: sharing loving memories of Ben with Brad, a hug from one sister, a phone call from another sister, a thinking-of-you message from a friend. There's a Japanese proverb that posits, One kind word can warm three winter months. True: and also, perhaps, one marbled poinsettia, splashing red-and-cream across an overcast afternoon.

Our Pink Poinsettia.

Our pink poinsettia arrived on the scene for Christmas 2018 and stayed with us through a troubled, turbulent year. After last year's holidays, pink bracts dropped by the wayside, and the plant wintered in our basement garden. In springtime, we pruned it and moved it outside, to the shade of a holly tree on the side of our house. It passed the summer there, sheltered and a bit forgotten. Patiently, poignantly, it mustered new foliage, lovely green leaves.

After Ben, in late autumn, we moved the poinsettia-- along with other potted prizes-- back to the basement garden. Brad took care of the watering; I periodically swept through the area, removing leaf debris and organic detritus, performing perfunctory tidy-ups. Ben was newly gone, and I wasn't paying particular attention to progress in the basement garden.

But then one mid-December morning, Brad carried our forgotten poinsettia upstairs and placed it on the sun porch. Behold: a profusion of delicate, salmon-pink bracts set against the lush green foliage! Botanical science tells us to chalk this up to photoperiodism-- advises us that we merely stumbled upon the requisite balance of nurturing light and utter darkness to achieve happy poinsettia color. I'd like to declare it a quiet miracle, testimony to resiliency in the natural world and a gentle admonition to keep minds and hearts open to wonders all around us.

A Quiet Miracle.

Three months, then, and four lovely lingering poinsettias: what have I learned so far? I've learned that making memories is a gift-- and that holding those memories close in the heart over time is a greater gift. I've learned that when the old world crumbles, we can pick up the pieces and fashion something precious to carry as we continue on the journey. I've learned that it's okay to be alone and that it's good to be together. And I've learned that despite raw loss and gaping grief, despite the multitude of day-in-day-out problems and challenges-- some large, some small, some perceived, and some very real-- we can persevere... celebrating love, laughter, wonder, all that's good, holding hope in our hearts.