The Arc of a Lilac

My mother-in-law Alice was a interesting, complicated, gifted person. She had many layers, and was often unpredictable. When I was first getting to know her in 1985, the time John and I started seeing each other, she was unsure of me and hesitant to become my friend because John had recently broken up with a longtime girlfriend and Alice missed her. I used to be offended by that, but now having lived that reality, I have more understanding. That was the beginning of our 33-year relationship from that spring until her death last year. There were definite peaks and valleys in that time, but in all it was a truly loving friendship. I miss her and think of her often, maybe especially in the spring when the blooms open and the scene grows green all about. John and I started dating in May — Alice’s birth month — and I learned quickly that Alice was a flower and plant aficionado. She knew so much, and had a vast vocabulary in that brain of hers. One of those earlier springs, she came to me holding a bloom — I have been trying so hard to remember what it was. I think it was a lily, but it might have been an iris. Anyway, it had been broken off its stem prematurely, and it was limp in her hand.

“I just hate it when they break,” she said. “They are already so ephemeral.” At the time I wasn’t sure what that word meant. I thought she might mean frilly or dainty, but then I looked it up and learned that it meant “temporary.” What a lovely word for temporary. Ephemeral. It is an elegant word for an elegant process, at least with a flower — from budding to wilting, with all the lovely in between. Now spring is upon us, and for those who live in relatively high elevation locales, this season can be fickle. There’s a chance the temperatures will gradually and steadily move upward, on toward summer. More likely, though, we will have frosts and snow maybe as late as May or even the first of June. We never know. So far this year, the air is holding steady. We have not had a frost, and the flowers have been free to open and stretch, bending toward the sun, showing us their brilliant colors and fine details. Their heads bob, attracting the bee and catching our eye. The scent of lilac is about, making me think of being a kid and of my dad. He loved the scent of lilac. We had several bushes of it in our yard, and I loved shoving my nose into the blooms to breathe in that fragrance. I still like to do that. Scent is a powerful trigger for memories.

Spring is energizing and fresh. After months of cold and ice and mud, the ever-deepening greenery is a true relief, and radiates hope. Spring used to mean different things. A lifetime ago, when I was a kid, it signaled exciting changes. Once Easter had come and gone, the end of school was not far off. I would push spring as much as I could, venturing outside in bare feet that first time, digging out my shorts and T-shirts even when the mercury was still hanging around 50, and finding my sandals in the back of my closet. Spring was always the time for piano recitals and band concerts. All those rehearsals and practices while snow swirled outside and boots stood at the ready next to the door; always having mittens shoved into my pockets and a scarf around my neck. All that time, playing the piano and saxophone, preparing for those spring shows. As the dates of the performances approached and the days grew sunnier, I would begin to think about what would come after. What would summer be like this year? As the apple tree in our front yard sported its little white and pink pre-apple buds, and the lilacs curled open their tiny clusters of fragrance, I would wonder about summer and remember what it felt like to sit in the grass, or to dive into the pool, or ride my bike all over Mountain Lake Park.

Spring is ephemeral, like all things. Those tender blooms are here only briefly, so long-awaited, especially when winter has been particularly stark. The dogwood flower begins as a wee teacup, just noticeable. Over the days it grows larger, and begins to open, showing its spiky center flecked with red that matches the spots of color on the notches of each petal. At last, in earnest, all the petals lean out, opening wide to the world, surrendering. That is the tree’s most magnificent show, when its flowers are fill-tilt open and cheery, bouncing in the spring wind, splashed with the rains that bring more green. For a few days we can take in the sight, but it is temporary. Even now, just days after we have been given that gift of sweet spring color and art, the dogwood blooms are being consumed by leaves on a growth spurt. The petals will be overtaken by the green, and they will flutter away, ending the show for another long year. But we will remember it, and wait for it with hope.

Spring is like a new romance. All the newness and the unpredictable turns, the energizing joy, the lightheartedness. Romance is ephemeral. Yes, a semblance of it can last, and can even grow into what many perceive as even better than those first heady weeks and months when everything is thrilling. But truly, the beginning of love is so like those lilac and dogwood flowers, tender and rich, and fleeting. We wait for it, we dive into it and stretch out, open and willing and free, and it is the most amazing thing. Laughter bubbles up and out so easily, and thoughts of one another are unrelenting, distracting us and causing us to smile while getting groceries or brushing our hair. All things seem easier and more fun. Just like spring. If all is in sync, romance grows into that sturdy, lasting green, its petals overtaken; remembered fondly, but never revisited in the same way. Such is one of the arcs of life, with a beginning, a thrilling middle, and an end, to be overtaken by the next arc. On and on.

Spring — with its magnificent colors, lusty wildlife, and scattering pollen — is passing quickly, to be replaced by the hot days of sunshine and blue. On the steamier days, those dark, gray clouds will surge across the entire sky and thunder will rumble and crack, bringing the rain and the distinct fragrances of soaked earth and brand new ozone. We’ll sweat and squint, bike ride and hike, and lounge on the porch with drinks, swatting flies and watching the birds. We will sail on that arc through to autumn, and winter, and spring, and summer. Changing. Always changing, expected and sometimes predictable, but new — and always ephemeral.

Imagine if things weren’t. Really imagine it. It’s hard because we are born into all things temporary. Our very lives are arcs, not straight lines. We all face the end, the saying goodbye, the final separation. We bring animals into our homes and care for them, feed them, and love them, fully knowing that we will most likely outlive them. We take that risk. Some of us go farther and dare to have our own children. That risk is phenomenal, given that our hearts are bound to our own offspring in a way that cannot be described or known until those beings are in our arms. Yet we make that leap with the full knowledge that all is temporary. The value of these risks outweigh the inevitable heartache. At least that is what we think at the beginning. Perhaps when the goodbye comes and the ache is raw and deep, the risk seems foolhardy. There may be a time when we regret it, but I think that, too, is temporary.

What if there were no arcs? Imagine no flower ever faded, no romance ever soured, no bird ever stopped singing. What if no one ever died? If the seasons did not change, if the apple blossom never dropped away. How bland it would all be, how expected and predictable, how safe and dull. That’s the beauty of the ephemeral. Rich and valuable and rare. Momentary. Something to look forward to, to love, to miss. Then to rediscover and feel again. Sadness is ephemeral, too, and illness, and a broken heart. Things mend, and we can rely on recovery most of the time. The nature of life on this planet gives us the gifts of momentary pleasure.

I went on a birding hike last week, and was struck by the giddy excitement of the veteran birders, which was contagious. What childlike glee we experienced at the sight of a bobolink and a meadowlark, a blue heron and a pair of scarlet tanagers. We would see them, shout to the others to come, and then watch and listen. Off they would flit, disappearing into the trees. We would sigh with contentment, so pleased to have seen the elusive little prize. An ephemeral joy for sure. We have so many of those. We listen to a piece of music, view art, visit friends, share meals, sing together, take hikes, on and on — each with its own arc, its own lifespan which is born, exists, and passes.

Springtime is skittering by. Go outside and see it, smell it, touch it — use every sense you have. The scene is awash in brilliance, like a sunset that paints an evanescent collage across the sky and bathes the very air in pink — for a few moments. In my soul I feel deep gratitude for these gifts, these crescents of time. I hope I will always remember to wait, watch, experience, and hope for the next one.