yves piaget

Tending the garden, gathering its blooms

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Yves Piaget, first of the season
For two solid years, I've babied this rose, from bare root plant to blossom. Thorns emerged, and it was prone to bugs and disease. A puny bud emerged at one point, but the stem was too fragile to support its weight. I almost yanked it from the flowerbed, right then and there. But at the last minute, I granted it a stay of execution.

If it doesn't thrive this season, I told myself, I'll replace it with something else. And wouldn't you just know it: The bush burst forth with three gorgeous flowers, earlier this week!

I've heard this in a religious context, and maybe you've encountered it elsewhere. But it occurred to me just this morning that writing memoir is not unlike the blossoming of this beautiful rose. With each chapter I write (revise or write again), the bud begins to flower. New petals reveal themselves–tiny hints of understanding; of honesty, unfurled–until one day the Truth spills forth, releasing with it the sweet, sweet fragrance of Freedom. The shadow on the right side–I try not to see that as a flaw. It represents the Unknowable, which is part of memoir, too.