Lilies of December

The inspiration to garden happened at the Second Time Around hospital auxiliary shop in Picton. The place is a catch-all for all sorts of used treasures that are sold to raise money for a good cause. It’s near the front door where something catches my curiosity. There are a number of small, filled bags, the plastic shopping variety, all tied at the top. Handwritten on each of them with black marker on masking tape is: “Lilies 3.00.” There are four or five bags or so and by feel maybe a half-dozen lily bulbs are in each one. The lady in the pink volunteer’s smock at the counter has no trace of the origins of the bulbs. There is no description— variety, colour—nor planting instructions or bar code. Simply secondhand bulbs dug up from a lily patch by a stranger.

I stand there as a sweep of images of May zips through my thinking. A random nudge persuades me to buy some. Well, why not all of them since I’m here! My mind is miles away from any kind of pre-planning but on the drive home I consider the practical side of my purchase. Mostly it dawns on me that, considering the date on the calendar, the bulbs need to be in the ground…like right now. Better still, like weeks ago! Well, I certainly don’t consider myself to be a gardener but I am apt, especially under pressure, at turning soil.

And so it is while digging I keep a small fire on the go to burn fallen branches and such. The smoke drifts through the atmosphere, adding to the dialogue of late afternoon. I’m using a pick-hoe affair with a bent ash handle to waken the ground that is stiff but not yet frozen. I trench a bed with pockets about six inches deep, just like it says in Gardening Made Easy. Prepare the ground for enough bulbs to “add an impressive show of lilies commencing in late May.” See what I mean? Says so right there on page 38! Just like I imagined!

I have a thermos of tea on the go and the work is satisfying. The sun breaks through slate-heavy clouds that may dump snow at any second. I listen to the run-off of Slab Creek, wandering below the nearby embankment that is laced with chokecherry bushes and fallen-down Manitoba maples.

Images of lilies were discovered in a villa in Crete as far back as 1500 BC. I gather that the lily became revered with such enthusiasm that the folks back then figured that—at least the white Madonna lily—sprouted from the milk of Hera, the queen of the gods. Also, according to legend, the spillover created the Milky Way.

Because of their symbolism, lilies are an important group of flowering plants tied to literature and culture in most of the world. I stop digging and hold quiet for a moment. It begins to occur to me that, in a way, I have unconsciously set a place of ceremony. One that the ancients would appreciate, I figure. It all adds up: winter solstice; the end of the calendar year; the primary elements—fire, water, air and earth. I lean against my pick-hoe and consider the ritual of planting in remembrance.

At this time of year we are surrounded by the ceremonies and symbols of the celebration of the season: the lights that twinkle along the road; the man in the red suit; the cards in the mai; the hearth, decorations on the tree; food preparation; church and family gatherings. Simultaneously, as is the balance of life, these very same re-enactments can bring to the forefront memories of those no longer present, of loss. This collision of emotions, the spinning around of life’s expectations, can make navigating the season difficult for many.

And so, in the mystery of it all, an afternoon seemingly without agenda manifests into a moment of sanctity. A ritual, it seems, is unfolding. It’s a solitary ceremony, yet I am not alone. It is a ceremony for all; a ceremony for the acceptance of the bittersweet of December; of what is; of what can’t be changed.

I lean into the pockets of the ground and one by one gently set the bulbs in place. The smoke from the fire, now sacred, spirals as it enunciates the four directions of the earth before reaching for the sun. Snow falls; there is warmth at my shoulders as I slowly cover the bulbs. Like the soil that clings to my boots, while there is heaviness to it, there is also the scent of that soil to recall the promise of the seasons.

On a ridge just across the way are three horses: heavy ones; dark manes, proud necks; Percherons, 18 hands each in height. They stride lightly across the gap, are silhouetted against the narrow band of sundown that separates land from sky. The world keeps on turning and any minute now the nights will shorten, the days lengthen. Already I hear the sunrise of May calling to the 26 lilies of December.

For my daughter Anna—and in deepest appreciation of the outreach of love and support from this magnificent community.