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When I was a little girl, I learned to live at my grandmother’s house. It was the safest place I knew, with an orchard of plum and Italian Prunes, dwarf trees perfect for climbing even when training pants were an integral part of your wardrobe. The Buffalo River crawled along the edge of her property, home to fresh water clams that could be caught and placed in buckets, and minnows that refused such indignities. But my favorite place was her garden.
There were flowers there I’d never seen, growing in anonymous abandon until I reached the age with a need to label things. One summer day when it was so hot even the dirt in the shade warmed my toes, I found a new patch of amazing color. I asked my grandmother what they were and heard her say, “Miracles.” Suspecting this was a case of an adult teasing me, I did a double take but she looked perfectly serious. There on my haunches, a dirty finger tracing ruffles of orange and yellow, their pungent odor penetrating my senses, it seemed entirely plausible that Miracles grew in my Grandmother’s garden.
A few seasons later I was there for spring planting. Out of the large Almond Roca tin filled with seed packets, I found an envelope with a picture of the orange and yellow ruffled flowers. Eagerly I picked it up and then saw in bold script: Marigolds. Miracles. I was crushed. Obviously I hadn’t heard what my Grandmother said that day in the garden. Hearing my disappointment, she pointed out that actually I was right the first time. Wasn’t it a miracle to see those plants rise from ground that once held seeds? And wasn’t it a miracle the way flowers sometimes chose to spring up in some other area of the garden, unrequested by us (or even across the road in the ditch?) They were the ‘delightful surprises’ we looked for. “Don’t be crying because you heard Miracles instead of Marigolds. It’s better that way. You’re just lucky.”
I try to remember that luck, but sometimes look so hard at the words in the world that I miss the miracles behind them.
Recently we were blessed with Tansy, a little Lowchen who came to us from rescue. Like the plant Tansy, our little girl is persistent, finding life even between cracks in the sidewalk and peering around the shadow of a building to find the sun so she can bloom. She came into our home shivering and not quite trusting her legs but soon was bold enough to chance jumping onto the couch. She’s learned to trust a treat from my fingers instead of needing it to be placed on the floor. She wags at our voices and looks when she hears her name. She’s learned to breath, even when we pick her up though she’s still pretty stiff when we snuggle her. She’s learning you don’t have to eat every piece of kibble in the bowl; someone will replace it when that’s gone. One day she’ll learn that car rides are joyous things and not fearful trips to some unknown. She’ll know that our calling her means good things and wonderful times and that she should come claim them. I think she’ll learn to play. That spirit is there. It’s learning how to let it go that’s so hard. And I like to think she’ll learn to sleep on us. A contented snore is a miracle we too often take for granted.
Watching Tansy grow I’m reminded again of how lucky I am and how many miracles are here, just waiting to be noticed. It’s not that rescue is all joy anymore than childhood was idyllic. There are scrapes, splinters, scary things and biting bugs in both. But when it comes down to it, rescue is like Grandmother’s garden, with amazing things springing from the earth. And unlike that adage that we “reap what we sow” we’re really quite lucky because when you look, we started with Marigolds and wound up with Miracles.
Copyright by Lu Wyland 2002