The Rites of Spring

A fistful of lilies of the valley was not easy to pick.  My mother planted them in a tight corner, in clumps on the right side of the front porch.  It faced south, the sunny side.  Although that corner seemed dark, it was wet and filled with little sticky webs that clung once you brushed into it.  There were other precious plants to stride over before securing a toe-hold on the nearest patch of bare soil and reaching in the corner to cut each long green stem.

Each spring as soon as it was short sleeve weather, everyday I began to visit the corner, pushing back the shiny big green leaves of the lilies. I watched the bells form and take shape. When they were ready, my teacher received a bundle of the white blossoms wrapped in a wet paper towel held together by a piece of crinkled foil.  Until I passed the bouquet off to my teacher, the good pleasure of inhaling the sweet fragrance of these flowers was mine. 

As an adult, I have never successfully grown lilies of the valley.  This time every year, I watch my First Grade-self handing the fistful of lilies to Sister Mary Natalie as a smile formed across her face, her eyes closed, as she inhaled deeply and just sighed in gratitude.

My students present me with dandelions heavy with pollen and droopy by the time they reach me.  As the recipient of this gesture of affection, I automatically draw the flowers close to inhale the earthy tones and sigh as I recall the simple rites of spring.