Unfortunately on the day in September of my husband and my nuclear fusion at the Museum of Science the florist did not supply the sweet, sweet, so easily bruised gardenia, but luckily I wasn’t a particular zilla in the bridal department, so I made do with the lovely white flowers I had chosen for all of the menfolk. It made a little sense that I didn’t get the flower I had wanted, actually. It just said how sweet and ephemeral life is and how little time we all really have with each other. How we have to appreciate the beauty that we have right in front of us instead of griping about what is overlooked and what we don’t get. That there is love and wonder in the imperfections. And a whole bunch of hippy dippy shit (that I totally believe). My father and I shared a lot of laughs and tears that day and I felt so lucky that he rallied and was his best self for me — showing that he felt our relationship as tender and precious as the flower I planned to pin to his lapel.
The divine Gardenia jasminoides: that one evasive note. Who decided calling things “one note” denotes crappiness, the mundane, mediocrity? On the subject — one of my favorite quotes (which is attributed to the Buddha but is actually from a Jack Kornfield book interpreting Buddhist wisdom) — “If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.”
September gets me all misty and wistful. Who am I kidding? I always carry a hint of anticipatory nostalgia. I got married three years ago and next year I’ll be 40 so there’s a certain heft to it as time marches on. Also — gardeniar — I hardly even know ’er!