Hope and Irises

 

I'm always running across quotes in books that I like. I may jot them down. Or I take a photo of them. Most of the time, I don't find a way to use them. It's kind of like those recipes I see on Facebook or in blogs that I print ... then promptly bury in a "might make someday pile" on my kitchen counter.

But this one from Charles Martin's book, The Last Exchange, recently rose to the surface again:

I've been some places where there is no hope, and yet somehow, it swims through the cracks. Rises to the surface. I've found hope staring me in the face when reason screamed I had none.. ... Not in all of human history has hope ever been laid to rest. When we breathe in, it's the stuff that expands our lungs. It's the reason we're not just dust. ... If you press me, love is what makes us who we are. Hope is how we express us. Hope is love with legs. 

from The Last Exchange by Charles Martin

 

 

Maybe blooming iris are like hope, too. Earlier this month, the bulbs were tightly closed. There was little hint of the blossom that would later unfurl from the tight, cocoon-shaped bulbs. 

 

 

But, like a butterfly breaking through a chrysalis and unfurling its wings, the iris' colorful petals also broke forth into a riot of purple framing our front doorstep and the mailbox. It's kind of like hope in the book quote, isn't it? The bloom breaks through the cracks and arrives at the surface - just like hope.

 

This year has seemed a particularly good year for iris. As I've mentioned before, they always remind me of my Grandma Neelly. She had purple iris outside her kitchen windows.  

 

She had a much better green thumb than I do. In fact, Randy is the reason we have anything growing in our yard and garden. But even if I don't carry her strong gardening gene, I still imagine her standing at the kitchen window, washing dishes and seeing the purple iris through the panes. They must have given her joy and hope...

just like seeing the iris surrounding our country road mailbox brings a smile as I arrive home.

And I feel the span across time connecting me to their old farm house and sweet memories of homemade noodles, green apple pie, a plastic candy dish, a manual typewriter, sugar-and-milk-laden coffee at breakfast time, Lassie and The Wonderful World of Disney with Grandpa Neelly, gathering eggs from the chicken house and so much more.

It's like a mental bouquet of love and hope. And even though the iris will soon be gone for the year, there remains the hope for next year ... and an invitation to say thank you.

It doesn’t have to be the blue iris

it could be weeds in a vacant lot,

 or a few small stones;

 just pay attention, 

then patch a few words together

 and don’t try to make them elaborate,

 this isn’t a contest

 but the doorway into thanks, 

and a silence in which another voice may speak.

Praying, by Mary Oliver