Finding the light

Beauty is everywhere, even in the darkest moments

Our dahlia haul.

It’s about a quarter acre, maybe more, where Rebecca grows several hundred dahlias under the big sky in Amish country. I don’t ask her age, but I’m thinking she’s in her early to mid-thirties. Her youngest is four; there are two or three older siblings at school on the day that we first meet.

She’s got a tent by the side of the road, with knee-high plastic tubs filled with freshly cut blooms. My friend Susan is the conduit and the driver. She pulls her Mini into the driveway. It’s a riot of color, fireworks at eye level. The purple-est of purples, the deepest reds, the snowiest, most lemony, orange-y, plummy, and every shade of every tropical fruit are on parade. Petals shaped into pompoms, sea anemones, pin cushions, stars, sundials. Thirteen dollars for twelve stems, says the sign.

This is just a taste, Susan says. Wait til you see what’s in the back.

We walk past the barn and into a wide open field. I gasp out loud. There are rows and rows of dahlias, tall as corn. Our farmer friend has planted eight hundred bulbs this year. EIGHT HUNDRED.

Together, the three of us walk from row to row, pointing to the blooms that inspire and delight. The September sun is still strong, Rebecca’s arms bronzed from working twelve-hour days six days a week. As she snips and trims, she regales us with tales from the fields and her plans for the upcoming offseason. We are not Amish and English; we are women walking side by side with Mother Nature. We are artists, we are daughters, we are mentors. We are human dahlias.

Covid comes to our house and sticks around for two weeks. One of the first things I do after a negative test is get in the car and go see Rebecca. By now, darkness has fallen on Israel. My breath keeps getting caught in my throat. My chest tightens. At first, I think it’s viral remnants. But I realize it’s grief. Grief for my beloved family of Jewish friends. Grief for senseless violence and hate. Grief for the loss of life, innocence, grace.

She knows I’ve been sick. Word travels fast among dahlia lovers.

“How are you feeling?” she wants to know. Her boy is in the distance, holding a light purple flower. She is looking right at me, her eyes filled with warmth and concern. It is the best non-hug hug ever.

Susan wants to know if I’m up for one more dahlia dance before the frost. It’s the morning after the massacre in Maine. There is no lull for our world, no respite between funerals, no calm to our nervous systems.

There are no dahlias on the table by the road. Maybe the predicted frost really did happen, we wonder.

As we make our way to the back, we hear the familiar purr of Rebecca’s tractor. Her boy is on her lap, a few buckets bursting with just-cut blooms. She’ll be right back, she says.

Susan and I stroll. Even with some frost damage, the dahlias seem undaunted, still vibrating with color. We are mere mortals in the presence of petalled goddesses. We know this without saying a word.

Susan is drawn to the burgundy blooms, ruffled like the trim on a velvet dress. I’m crushing on the yellow, pale red, and pink combo that reminds me of a peach. We linger in the sun that is strong for late October. We chitter and we chatter, our banter like birdsong. We are awash in beauty borne out of Rebecca’s two hands — and her heart.

In her recent newsletter, poet and somatic therapist Mindy Nettifee writes that “We cannot conquer evil, but evil cannot conquer goodness and love, either.”

As we pack the car with our bundles, it’s hard to say goodbye. We know that a frost can come at any time. We may not see each other until next year. There are more dark days ahead. We will keep the light burning for as long it takes.