There’s something innately beautiful and graceful about flowers. From buds to those in full bloom, I love its colors and how they smell. I love how flowers are bunched up together or how they bring life to any space. Next to food and B, flowers are my favorite photo subjects too.
(Clockwise: at the Sigmund Freud Park, Vienna; at a park in District 1 of Ho Chi Minh City; displays at the Sunday Market in Toulouse; from the window of a flower shop in Angers)
As a child, my love for flowers deepened when then-healthy Lola (my maternal grandmother) would ask me to join her in the garden, and I would help her tend to her flowers by pulling out weeds and watering them. My mom once said that Lola would talk to her plants and they’d respond to her gentle coaxing by remaining lush. I never heard Lola’s conversation with her garden, but I never doubted what my mom told me. Such was the magic Lola had.
I’ve been thinking about Lola a lot lately.
She was not just my first teacher of cooking, crafts and gardening. Lola was also a writer and thought leader of her time. When Parkinson’s weakened Lola, she’d ask me to type up her articles on her electric typewriter. There were days when she’d have me sit by her bedside and read aloud some of her work or other articles she found in a magazine, and then ask me to give an opinion about what I just read. Looking back, I know what I said weren’t substantial, but Lola appreciated that I at least had a say on it – and that was what mattered. It was in the little things that she made me do back then that taught me some valuable lessons for today. I hope that in everything I do, I too may put in my own magic as well.
Lola’s long passed, as well as the garden that she so tenderly cared for. I wish she was still around to meet B, but I’m sure she’s out there smiling in approval.
This post’s for you, Lola. Hope you enjoyed reading it. Hug Lolo for me, please.