The Lesson of the Lilac

It has been a few years since I have written anything but lists: To-do lists at work, grocery shopping lists, and lists to remind me of errands that need to be done, just to name a few.  And, 2017 was the last time I wrote anything on this blog. 

What has finally brought me back to the blog-writing fold?  In a nutshell, March 13, 2020.  School closure, among other things, in Massachusetts due to the global pandemic of Covid-19.  Working from home and trying to continue the school routine remotely has proven to be quite an experience.  I recognize that at this point in my life, with my own kids the ages that they are, this unprecedented situation has been easier on me, than say, if they were both five years younger.   

But this post, as you have probably noticed, is most certainly not dated, March 13, 2020.  It took two months for me to even begin to formulate my thoughts.  Broken bits of observations, fragment phrases, disgust (and laughter) for social media posts, and the list goes on (as I mentioned, I have come to like writing lists).  Singular emotions, one after the other: hope, sadness, disappointment, patience and thankfulness all occurring like a wheel let loose down a hill.

After about a month of processing it all, I decided to take out my camera to capture some images of emerging flowers.  This hobby, in and of itself, is not new.  And, at some point, I hope to start using the photographs to guide me as an artist. But until then, I will work on building my library of images.  In any case, on April 14, 2020, I deemed the lilac buds worthy of a photograph:

If I had known then, what I know now, I should have taken the picture of the lilac branches on that day in March.  What began then with tiny leaflets protruding from branches, led to tiny clusters of buds in April to burgeoning flowers in May.  Now, on May 20, 2020 the scent of the lilacs has begun to permeate the backyard with it's delicate scent.  After a couple of weeks, the scent will dissipate, the flowers will wilt, and dry up, leaving the tree to prepare it's flower heads for next year.  It may or may not be commonly known, though, that the lilac prepares its' flower heads for the next year once the current year's flowers have expired.  To ensure that the tree produces an abundance of flowers in the following year, it is important to clip off the spent flower heads from the tree soon after they expire.

I speak for myself when I say that the lilac tree brings me something of an ethereal calm.  The scent transports me to yards of my past; to quieter times? Maybe.  To moments of joy? Definitely.  And, amidst the unrest created by many during a global pandemic, I need to find my calm.  I look to the lilac (and many other flowers) to bring me some peace, and an opportunity to reflect inwardly on the processes of life and humanity. 

At this point, I could quote Ecclesiastes, "for everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven", but that is understood, and even perhaps a little cliche.  The lilac flower certainly has it's time to be born and it's time to die.  That in and of itself, gives me pause to challenge my notion of patience, and what it means to patiently wait for something, to be rewarded with its presence, and then disappointed to see it go.  In addition to the cycle of the lilac flower's lifespan, it is the idea that with help, the lilac tree will be better than it was the year before, each year after.  It is the patience found in caring for something else, even when you don't know if your efforts will in fact be worth it.

And, I think the lesson of the lilac, at least for me, is a timely one.  I am embodied with the faith that the lilac will be better, because of my efforts to assist it.  Just as I believe in the efforts of the many to do what is right for the greater good.  And, while we don't always see the benefits right away, over time, with patience and perseverance, the reward will arrive and we will be all, as one, the better for it.