Thirty Years

In wildfire and flowers

In the mayhem of the wildfire, we celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. Like a gift dropped into chaos, my husband landed on an emergency flight home and we woke up on the morning of our anniversary to experience together a natural disaster and the celebration of our love in an unimaginable clash of events.

During a candlelit evening, with our cars packed and ready to evacuate, we shared a fancy dinner at our dining table, with Nora Jones serenading in the background, while the wind blew to 50 and the fire wildly leaped ahead of itself only two miles away. Engines and their sirens screamed by and evacuation updates pinged through on our phones. Would we be leaving at any moment? Would our home be here when we returned?

What I didn’t know was that this guy had secretly arranged to have a flower bouquet made by my friend and floral artist, and delivered to me that day. We weren’t, of course, expecting a wildfire, and we weren’t expecting him to be home for our anniversary, but thirty years. He’d planned for love and beauty to come my way.

But then, there was a wildfire.

And he did come home. And here was chaos and uncertainty and a quick covert text by him to the artist to delay delivery for a day. Then, another day. Finally, finally, on day three, while the fire raged on, beauty simply couldn’t wait another moment. And the most beautiful floral design came through our door and into my life. My gracious. There were fresh roses, stock (some of my favorite), and sunflowers, together with so many delightful, wild things in the most exquisite design. (She’d gone on a foraging spree, she said, with me in mind. Oh my heart.)

This love. This talent. This beauty. Being known and seen. My goodness! For me?

The mountains are black. Ninety-six thousand, nine hundred fifty-five acres have burned. Many of our favorite places to hike, camp, hunt, and make memories are gone. Amazingly, thanks to the heroic efforts of local people, local ranchers, local volunteer fire departments, and federal and contract engine crews, only two houses burned. The fire is 73% contained.

I basked in the beauty of the flowers. Daily, hourly, I’d study the art of them as if I were standing before a painting at the Met. I watered them faithfully. Then, after a week I stopped. I watched and waited. As time went by, the flowers passed, their colors deepened. Contrast and shadow appeared at the edge of the petals as if by the tip of a watercolorist’s brush. Leaves curled and milkweed seed floated on flaxen wings. The exquisite sculpting of age had come. A fresh floral design had become a dried floral wonder right before my eyes.

Beauty that was became the beauty that is.

Charred landscapes scrape an abrasion across your heart; the freshest of flowers fade. But this is not the end. Weep, yes, deeply. But then, take a breath. Lift up your eyes. Watch and wait. Another layer of beauty is ready to unfold.