Awake again. Pain, the unwanted guest that will not leave, rousts me from my dream cloud. I sigh, close my eyes and listen. In the distance, the unmistakable call of two horned owls in a call-and-answer song. A couple, an intruder, a new friend? I wonder. On silent wings, I never hear them leap off the oak branches and fly off into the night.
Tonight, there is a full moon, dubbed the May Flower Moon. In the soft, dim light exchanged between stars and moon, I stroll out to the garden. During the day, dramatic colours demand my attention, but now, it is time for the ghostly waltz of plants with white flowers.
I tarry at the Madame Alfred Carrière climbing rose that glows in the shadowy light, releasing its musky scent. Already, the tension starts to drop off my shoulders. I first saw this rose in England in the white garden of Sissinghurst, the home of Vita Sackville-West, and vowed to have one in my garden. Bred in France in 1879, it is a vigorous, almost thornless rose with very fragrant, fully double, creamy white flowers that are tinted with pink.
Nearby is the white aquilegia, its blooms rising from angular stems like sleek spacecrafts with a vapour trail. From the depths of my troubled mind, a smile emerges. I revel in quiet satisfaction, knowing that I planted these plants in this place and diligently tended to their needs. And now, they reward me with such beauty here in the moonlight.
Garden as autobiography
My garden is a form of autobiography, a painting on a canvas that changes every day. Despite the ravages of age and the horrors of our world—violence, hate, and pandemic—we gardeners still hope, otherwise we wouldn’t believe that a seed, a bare root, a seedling can in time become this spectacle. The garden feeds and sustains me, and as I slowly plant, weed and harvest, I enter a kind of meditation that dissolves anxiety.
I cannot sleep, but I go to where life whispers its mysteries. Tonight, hovering above me, is the “Flower Moon,” that moon in May, occurring on the fifth this year. Am I really seeing a rosy tinge on its craters and aura?
The First Peoples and the full moon
The First Peoples named full moons based on the natural environment around them. The Algonquin people called May’s moon the “Flower Moon,” because it honoured the beautiful and vibrant wildflowers that bloomed during May, such as bluebells, lupin, violets, anemones and sundrops. The Cree called this moon the “Budding Moon,” as May is the month that plants really begin to leaf out. I really like the idea that it is all about rejuvenation.
The Flower Moon reminded the First Peoples to plant crops. They knew that plants drew upon additional light and groundwater to advance from seed. Flush with growth, their crops responded like rising tides during the full moon.
I head for the stone bench in the back garden and take a seat. I concentrate on slow rhythmic breathing, exhaling thoughts that wind in persistent circles around pain. I glance upward at a sea of white flowers on the mature potato vine growing over the pergola. From this vantage point, it floats magically in a silvery light.
Flower Moon rituals
A friend told me about her rituals that she performs during the Flower Moon to centre herself. She writes down goals and desires for the upcoming month. Then she places them under the light of the full moon to energize her wishes. She meditates, using the moon’s energy to help her connect with her inner self and find clarity. Lastly, she releases negative energy.
Tonight, I will try her techniques. Going inside, I write down my fears and return to the bench. I release the folded paper under the full moon. It spirals and dances in the gentle breeze, effaced by darkness. The pain may not let go of my body tonight, but it doesn’t have to rule my mind.
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image: CLAUDIA DEA
