How I love the freshly cut offerings of Spring and early Summer. Their rag-tag blossoms are compelling precisely because they lack the artifice of more structured bouquets. Their random assemblage delights me because it gives more than it gets and requires almost nothing from me. No floral foam bricks, no frogs, no wires, none of the props employed by more gifted designers. My steps for arranging a bouquet read like the box of a ready-mix, no bake dessert. ‘Select one appropriately sized pitcher (a vase or a jar will do), trim stems, place flowers in container, add water, and enjoy.’ I have employed this technique so often I no longer have to read my own directions.
Floral fortune has smiled on me especially brightly for the last few months. Neighbors on both sides have filled my life with flowers, almost as if in coordinated effort to make sure I didn’t forget that beauty still exists in a world darkened by grief and fear, and where sicknesses of body and soul compete for top billing on the nightly news.
On one side, I have my thoughtful and generous daughter-in-law who, ingeniously intent on bolstering the local economy and my spirits simultaneously, had farm fresh flowers delivered weekly. Long-lived blossoms, their stems kept strong in water, took center stage in the dining room until their tired petals fell silently in permanent repose. Other flowers, not giving up so easily, chose to dry rather than die and live on in more permanent arrangements throughout the house.
On the other side, my talented and industrious neighbor brightened my days by posting her photographs of flowers. With a lens and an artful eye, she transforms flowers from farms and neighborhood gardens into still-life masterpieces. No vases or pitchers distract from the intense beauty of the flowers. A black backdrop removes the challenge of competing hues so that the shyest of shades feels free to show off. Often a single naked flower stands unblinking in its beauty, unembarrassed by its flaws, its stalwart dignity not letting the bruising from a harsh rain or the scars of a tormenting insect keep it from sharing what it still can offer.
I tried recently to explain to my neighbor how much her photographs moved me. The intent and intensity of my meaning must have been lost across the socially distanced span because, in response, she replied, “Do what I do. Just take pictures of the flowers in the neighborhood when you go for a walk.”
“No, I can’t,” I laughed. And I knew I couldn’t.
As much as I would love to interpret my world through the lens of a camera, I haven’t yet mastered centering and focus, not to mention aperture or F-stop. Particularly during these trying days where real friends have been reduced to talking heads and conversations across intimate tables now take place via internet devices, a creative outlet that produces beauty or touches other people was particularly appealing. As I bemoaned my lack of photographic talent, a life motto floated through my thoughts, “Do what you can and not what you can’t.”
Suddenly my mind was embroiled in one of its internal dialogues. “Well, if you can’t take photos, what can you do?”
“Well, I can clean out my kitchen cabinets and sort through 50 years of pictures.”
“But what else can you do that would bring you joy and might be shared with others?”
“Hmmm. Oh. I see what you mean. I can write. I love to do it and people don’t mind reading it.”
“So, why aren’t you doing it?”
And so I did. But before I wrote, I began to think more about the opportunities at hand and less about the restrictions currently in place; I focused more at what I had and less on what I’d lost; I focused on an envelope of memorabilia I could cull and not on the boxes stacked in the closet. Then I began to write. (A recent post about savoring a deep woods experience from my front porch was a direct result.)
In recent days, I have thought a lot about what it means to ‘Do what you can and not what you can’t.’ It seems that too often we focus on the second half of the sentence and less eagerly on the first. It serves as a flippant excuse to avoid what we do not want to do—or can’t do without considerable effort. It has become the lumpy, yet familiar, place of repose, a piece of mental furniture we should replace but don’t because we have grown accustomed to its mind-numbing contours.
For me, the phrase ‘what I can’t’ has become the wake-up call to look toward what I can. When I cannot take a trip, it reminds me to enjoy the beauty of my yard. When I miss having coffee dates, it reminds me to call friends or write a note. When I can’t stop a dripping faucet, it reminds me to call the plumber. When I can’t clean the whole house, it reminds me to wash the dishes or pick up offending crumbs.
When I want to capture the beauty of a moment, the smile of a child, the blush of fresh picked flowers, and have neither the camera or the skill, it reminds me to write—to do what I can and not what I can’t.
