Some thoughts on the evocative scent of lilac, praising its beauty, wondering why it’s considered unlucky and acknowledging its power to break through my brittle armour and wake up my my tender feelings.
It’s that dreamy time of year when, if you’re lucky enough to be walking down the street when the spring breeze takes a rest, your senses are filled with one delightful scent after another. Hawthorne, laburnum and wisteria blossom fill the air and turn our world to beauty. And laying overall, there is the scent of lilac, wafting across the road.
Is it just me, or is anyone else deeply affected by the scent of fresh lilac?
Maybe that’s why some people think it’s unlucky and refuse to allow it indoors.
When I was a student nurse in the old days, when fresh flowers were allowed on hospital wards, lilac was strictly forbidden!
Is it because it refuses to be ignored? Does it wake up unwonted and uneasy memories and feelings?
Well, I will bring lilac into my house any day, although I have found it a challenging friend.
In February 2013, my mam died.
In May of the same year, I was ambushed in my own garden.
I was happily pouring potato peelings into the compost bin and filling up the bird feeders, which hung by the lilac tree, when the beautiful sight and scent took me by surprise and broke into my closed-up heart.
Lilac opened the floodgates and let my tears fall. Lilac prised angry questions out of me:
What was going on? How could there be so much beauty without my mam to see and smell it? How dare spring, which she loved so much, blossom without her?
Beauty opened up the pain of loss.
Spring lilac greets me,
Breaking open my closed heart.
Beauty meets my loss.
After three years, I moved to another group of churches. It was painful to live in a place which mam didn’t know about, where no one knew I’d ever had a parent.
In the new Vicarage garden, two lilac trees enticed me when their buds first appeared, and I wondered what colour they would be.
When they unfurled into white and purple petals, I thanked God. Spring on spring, lilac doesn’t fail and I hadn’t left beauty behind.
Now, in a different home, no lilac grows in our retirement garden, but that’s OK. Gardens around us are profuse with it and its scent doesn’t recognise boundaries.
Purple, pink and white,
Lilac presents her beauty,
Knocking on my heart.
I thank God from the bottom of my heart for the beauty of lilac, which met me in the locked-up depths of grief and opened my heart up to life which persists, season by season.
What scents are most evocative for you?
Do you know why lilac is considered unlucky?
Wander well through spring,
Mandy.
Things I Love:
The scent of spring.
Lilac trees.
A vase of fresh flowers.
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In which Jesus takes a break from Jerusalem and visits a friend in Bethany. There, an unidentified woman anoints his head with very expensive perfume. This is a beautiful, caring, soothing gift but she is criticised and what she did shook things up again. Was this a bit of the week’s pattern which just didn’t match up?
The house in Bethany was warm and comfortable. The scent of bread and spiced lentils filled the air, mingling with warm oil when the lamps were lit. Simon, the host, prayed the evening prayer and blessed the light and the food, then with a grateful sigh, the men took their places at the table.
Walking the two miles from Jerusalem at the end of a long day had been worth it. The city crowds were oppressive. Everyone was ready to celebrate Passover and passions were running high. To mark the festival of freedom, the Roman governor Pontius Pilate had moved into town with military reinforcements, and they were making their presence felt. Talk about irony!
However much they wanted to leave the tension behind, of course they carried it into the welcoming house with them. Their conversation was brief and they looked from one to another to see if anyone had a clue what was going to happen next.
Eventually, they looked to Jesus, who must have been wearier than all of them. In a few days, he had arrived in Jerusalem, wept over it, looked around at everything, driven money changers out of the temple and taken his place there as teacher, giving out some hard lessons. He even said that the temple would be destroyed. He must have been goading his opponents. Surely this was the time for decisive action, the time some of them had been waiting three years for.
Thank God he had friends in Bethany. Surely, while they were safe in this house, he would tell them what to do next and how the pattern of this week would fit together.
Still, Jesus kept quiet, breathed in the peace and quiet and enjoyed the food.
Until that is, a draught cooled the air and a new scent entered. Simon looked up first to see who had entered his house and a flicker of recognition crossed his brow. He smiled to welcome the woman but stood up to stop her when he saw what she was doing.
The men around the table gasped when they heard the crack of alabaster and smelt the beautiful perfume which was poured over Jesus’ head. Quickly, they were all on their feet, apart from Jesus, who relaxed and smiled his first smile for a long time.
The scent of spices, oil, and shocked, tired bodies gave way completely to that perfume. The whole house was filled with it.
The horrified silence soon gave way to muttering, which became angry outbursts. It was hard to put their fury into words, so it came down to money. What we spend our money on is always an easy target for criticism.
“That perfume was worth a full year’s work. It could have been sold and the money given to the poor.” Mark’s Gospel chapter 14 verse 4.
Little did that woman know that for millennia to come, men would still be arguing about that and condemning her as immoral just because she had a valuable possession!
Still, Jesus spoke then in her defence. What a beautiful thing she had done. In that week of tension and danger, that woman gave all she had to comfort and soothe Jesus. He recognised that this was a preparation for his death. Maybe she was the only one in the room to get what was happening.
This was a piece of the pattern which just didn’t fit for some of the disciples. The group got a bit flakier.
A woman’s loving generosity and understanding didn’t fit the pattern and threatened the expectations of the men who were closest to Jesus.
What I wonder is this: did that beautiful perfume cling to Jesus through the rest of the week? In the middle of terrible cruelty, did that perfume act as a reminder of an act of kindness?What do you think?
Wander well towards Easter,
Mandy.
You can read this Bible story in Mark’s Gospel chapter 14 and Matthew’s Gospel chapter 26.
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February is such an evocative month for me. It begins with remembering a birth and ends with remembering death. It is all part of life and love.Here is part of the story of my parents’ deaths. I’ve written it in love and hope.The photos were all taken in the last week of February, in Sherwood Forest, which is a place they both taught me to love.
What did you say?
Wednesday 28th February 1990 lives on as a grey blustery day in my memory. I was walking up Haydn Road in Nottingham, alongside my friend. We’d both left two children in school and were wheeling our toddlers along in pushchairs. We chatted about the day ahead. I was looking forward to having my hair cut and helping at the Toy Library before the end of school. I was thinking about my dad who was going to hospital that day and my husband who was calling in to help him get up and ready for the ambulance.
Life can change in an instant.
A car pulled up alongside us and my husband jumped out. I was confused, the car was my brother in law’s, and he stayed behind the driving wheel.
There was no easy way to say it.
“Mandy, your dad’s died”.
I am sorry to say I was cross.
“What did you say?”
To my left, my friend gasped “Oh Mandy”,and her hand was over her face.
This was not unexpected, but it was the shock of my life. Lung cancer had done its work as predicted and taken a year from diagnosis to the end.
As I’ve said before, I am blessed with good family and friends. We all bundled into the car, pushchairs, friend, toddlers and all and my brother-in-law drove us home.
My friend took in my two-year-old daughter and promised to look after her and fetch her brothers from school.
Cancelling.
At home, I made phone calls to cancel the hairdresser’s appointment and apologise to the Toy Library coordinator. I found my address book in case I needed to make more calls from mam’s phone, then we left my day and all my carefully made plans and I was driven into a strange, sad and scary new world.
There were no mobile phones.
See this link for more about the part my hairdresser played.
Twenty-three years later, on Wednesday 27th February 2013, I spent a freezing cold day in Coventry Cathedral. We sat with our overcoats on, listening to distinguished speakers talking about conflict and how it could be a positive, creative thing if we’re not afraid of it and how it can be destructive when it’s ignored. It’s not a lesson I’ve learnt very well.
I enjoyed the day, I met some old friends from theological college and in the evening, we ate a delicious meal before we listened to the after-dinner speakers.
This was a two-day conference, and I stayed overnight in a travel lodge. I had been obedient to the rules and kept my phone switched off all day and evening. When I walked away from the cathedral into the strange city, I switched my phone on and got another shock which sent me reeling.
It lit up with messages to call my husband, but my brother had left a voicemail with the news:
“Mandy, I’m so sorry, mam’s died.”
Guilt.
I was full of shock and guilt that I hadn’t been there and was the last to know. I spent the night awake, alone in a strange place and fought the urge to just walk out into the dark, I was so desperate to get home.
She had fooled us all. There had been many times when we were told she didn’t have long to live. There were mornings when I’d woken up convinced I’d slept through a phone call from the hospital calling me in to her bedside. Indeed, eighteen months previously she’d been admitted to a nursing home with only three months to live!
A couple of evenings before I went away, I’d sat with her and together we filled in a questionnaire about what sort of music she liked, what work she’d done and where she’d been on holiday. I think the nursing home staff thought she was there to stay!
In the end, I believe she did what she wanted, and passed away quietly in her sleep, with none of us there.
Full of apologies.
In Coventry, after a sleepless night, I dutifully went back to the cathedral and began apologising. I said sorry that I’d got to leave. I’d promised to show another woman the way to the train station, and I said sorry to her. Mam’s vicar was there, who was a good friend to her, and when I told him, I said sorry.
Happily, I was surrounded there by friends, for which I am grateful.
I walked to the train station, bought a new ticket and arrived home to a strange, sad and scary world.
Once more into the wilderness.
There is nothing like grief to banish you into a state of wilderness. With the loss of each parent, I felt exiled into a strange land, where I didn’t know my way around and didn’t know who I was. I was surprised at how physical it all was, with actual pain and infections, as if my body was grieving, one bit at a time. This is all part of loving someone and so I am grateful for it.
Thankfulness.
Thankfully, there were lots of glimmers of goodness along the way. I keep saying it, and I will say it again, I am blessed by my family and friends, and I thank them all for their kindness.
February.
February is such an evocative month for me, full of different aspects of love. It begins with memories of a birth and ends with memories of death, and maybe this is fitting for a month where darkness and light, winter and spring mingle.
See these links to read the happy stories of birth:
Whatever you are wandering through right now, wander well.
Mandy.
Things I love:
My parents, family and friends.
This quote from Saint Paul, which I believe: I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things to come, nor powers, nor heights, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Taken from Paul’s letter to the Romans, chapter 8.
A love story with a difference, in which an unexpected couple meet, build a home and start a family.
A Spring Romance.
At long last, she felt the first weak, warmth of February sun soothing her back as she looked around the winter garden. Snowdrops nodded to her and tiny purple crocus stood straight and strongly out of the damp earth. One valiant daffodil in full bloom heralded March and pink fluffy willow buds were opening, promising light, colour and long days to come.
She enjoyed the lightness and energy which the day gave. but something stronger was tugging at her heart. It was the same every year, she couldn’t help it. The longer days and the hints of warmth brought back the same old yearning. Every fibre in her small body, every bone and muscle cried out for a baby. Even now, she was obsessed with where she might find what she needed to provide a warm, safe bed in which to place a young one.
There was one snag. She could be as ready and willing as anything, but without a partner she’d just be left with the longing which threatened to consume her.
She took another turn around the garden, before something caught her eye. There, on the grass just in front of the hawthorn hedge was a sparrow. He looked striking. February had brought out his best colours, and he was dressed to impress in grey, chestnut brown, black and white.
The sparrow was busy, pecking at the ground. There must be something tasty there. Gradually, he began to look up between pecks and, she could hardly believe this, he cocked his head to look straight at her.
Very slowly, she approached the sparrow. Her heart was racing and a shiver of excitement ran through her. He stayed where he was, pecking at the ground and looking at her. At last, there she was, face to face with him. Their beaks were almost touching and wonder of wonders, he picked up a seed from the ground and offered it to her. She didn’t hesitate but accepted his gift eagerly. He turned and fluffed out his feathers, pointing his chest towards her, then gave a little hop and a dance before flying into the air, fluttering his wings and hovering in mid-flight before settling in the prickly hedge. There, he began to sing to her, with short chirping notes.
Her heart soared; she spread her wings and flew to join him. She blended well into the hedge and watched while he flew back and forth, collecting twigs and feathers to build their nest. Once he had chosen the place where she would lay her eggs and began building, she could help him and at last gather what she needed to keep the eggs and chicks warm and safe.
As the days grew longer and warmer, her dreams came true. Through late spring and early summer, she carried on laying eggs, keeping them warm and feeding her young. Her mate stayed true to her, even when his bright colours faded. He guarded their home and fed her while she sat still and warm in the nest, incubating new life.
Life in the garden was busy but calm. They enjoyed living close to humans. There was plenty of shelter, lots of seeds, insects and caterpillars in the well-kept garden and they weren’t above scavenging for kitchen scraps!
February 14th, Saint Valentine’s Day, is traditionally the day when birds start to mate! This is an ancient belief. Geoffrey Chaucer, in his fourteenth century poem “Parliament of Fowls”, wrote:
“For this was on Saint Valentine’s Day,
When every fowl comes there his mate to take.”
I have taken a bit of a liberty in my story about sparrows, because they wait until spring and carry on mating through to early summer. I chose sparrows, because they like to live near humans and I love to see them in small flocks around our house. They are not fussy about what they eat and they’re really brave. They use their voices to see off anyone who passes near their nest!
I am grateful to www.birdful.org for information about the courtship habits of sparrows. Who’d have known it started with food!
Love comes in many forms. What does Saint Valentine’s Day mean to you?
A child goes with her father to fetch a pram for the new baby at home. an adult remembers shopping in Nottingham
This memory lives in a bright blue winter sky.
It was a bright, blue skied, breezy February Saturday afternoon. Well, actually, the weather could have been doing anything. It might have been drenching, miserable sleety drizzle for all I know, but in my mind, it was beautiful, sunny and dry.
What sort of weather do your happy memories live in?
It’s a memory which stirs my soul, tingles my belly and rises up to a smile on my lips. That was a happy day for me because I walked with my dad from the 54-bus stop on Long Row in Nottingham, over Victoria Street and down Goose Gate and Hockley.
Hockley and Goose Gate were, and still are, exciting streets which run into each other. They were our walking route into the city centre and held a myriad of small shops; butchers, clothes shops, shoe shops, haberdasher’s, photographers, newsagents and wonder of wonders, Woolworth’s, with its low lighting and overpowering, sickly, rubbery smell of plimsolls and plastic sandals and its white tubs of delicious, pick n mix biscuits.
Would you pick pink wafers, bourbons or custard creams?
However, that Saturday afternoon, and again, it could have been any day of the week apart from Sunday, but I assume it was Saturday afternoon because that’s when my dad was off work, we didn’t go to Woolworth’s, the butchers or the shoe shop.
Shops were always closed on Sundays, apart from back street newsagents as I remember.
That day, we made a once in my lifetime visit to the Nottingham Pram Company. A large shop with plate glass windows which displayed shiny prams and pushchairs. Inside, everything smelt clean and new and promised happiness. Plenty of models were on display. The chrome wheels were polished, the handles gleamed and the covers were brushed.
I couldn’t believe we were there and would leave with something so beautiful, but that’s what we did, and I walked home, beaming with pride, holding onto the navy pram which my dad pushed. I was six years old and we took it home to my baby brother whom I guess was already born, because he had arrived sooner than expected.
I know the birth of a baby brings more than unadulterated happiness. Indeed, my mam was taken into hospital for a few weeks, leaving my eighteen-year-old sister to give up her job and look after us. I was well looked after and I am really grateful to my sister, dad, brother, aunties and a number of kind neighbours, but the skies aren’t quite so bright in those memories.
Still, I don’t think anything will dim the day that we fetched the pram!
February’s a very evocative month for me. Next time, I’ll write a little story for Valentine’s Day!
Wandering Through The Land Of Nod. 