Glimmers & gratitude

I’m not going to lie, the last couple of days have been a lot. The ideas I had for things to write about seem a bit trivial today and the thing that has knocked me for six - the funeral of a friend from my school days - is not mine to share.

I keep coming back to the things that bring us comfort, the shards of light in the darkest of moments, the strength that the people grieving the most have shown even as their worlds are torn apart and the positives that we crave evidence of in these moments.

The opportunity to reconnect with people I shared my formative years with, to sit with two of my very best friends from school, to reminisce and reflect on that time and to marvel at the invisible strings that still tie us together. Invisible strings that, because of where we came from, our childhoods and the many shared experiences that shaped us, drew us back together yesterday from across the globe, and across the years, to celebrate the life of one of us.

I had an early morning potter in the garden today, after a ridiculously early start to drop one daughter off for a school trip, and I forced myself to sit with my feelings, let myself have another cry for the unfairness of it all, and take some time to look for the glimmers.

The dahlias that I hibernated over the winter and potted up last month are springing back to life and there is hope right now that they will grow strong and, weather willing, fill the garden with their colourful blousy-ness from July until the first frosts.

The allium that are currently fighting their way through the foliage into the light and will burst into glorious firework balls of purple joy in a few short weeks, just like they did last year and the year before that.

The peonies that surely know from bitter experience that the moment their first buds burst into bloom, the rain will start and, if I’m lucky I will be at home and can run outside to cut them and ensure they have their moment inside. Every single year.

The hydrangea that are gently unfurling new leaves all around the garden at the moment. My absolute favourites that cause me to hold my breath every Spring as I search eagerly for the first buds to show me that they’ve survived another winter. Their delicateness means I often accidentally knock leaves off and have been known to apologise to them out loud and hope that they survive the setback. And they do survive, even when they’re cut right down in the Spring because that’s what Monty tells me to do (and who am I to argue with The Don?), they rise up in all their glory to spend another summer basking in the (one day of) sunshine.

And because my lovely school friend was the biggest Star Wars fan, I’m going to leave it there and allow Yoda to have the final words:

“Death is a natural part of life. Rejoice for those around you who transform into the Force.”