The early wake up call. “Mom, can you pick me up at the Sky Train Station? I worked a night shift” My son, now an adult, still occasionally calling mom for a ride home! Disheveled, flattered, I manage to throw myself together in relatively decent style. Arriving at his townhouse, my son suggests I view the garden. The small plot of earth carefully arranged with green shoots, annuals and perennials reaching for the sunshine. Lavender bushes. The window box of herbs. The three raspberry canes, looking forlorn, yet hopeful, the promise of bearing sweet fruit. My son asks questions and seeks advice on gardening. “What’s a good rose to grow?” Depends, if you want a rambler or a climber. Touched, I lovingly recall the little boy he once was and the times we spent looking at the gardens in our neighbourhood, planting the Mother’s Day gift of lupin seeds, a memory from the story we shared, Miss Rumphius, placing picked flowers into a vase, floating rose petals in a bowl. I ache to go back in time. What struck me is that the little things we often take for granted, count. Pivotal moments in time. The walks and talks. Simple acts, like planting flowers, teach us to appreciate the beauty in life.
Precious gifts of time that we share with one another. Years ago, my father and grandfather taught me, through their simple actions, to find peace in a garden, to create beauty, to nurture life, to discover hope in the bleakest of conditions. Their gift of time, passed on to me, passed along to my son.