V-day 09 is a Phalaenopsis (the moon or moth orchid). These are quite common, V-day 08 is a moth orchid as well. You have probably seen these orchids at the flower shop. The faces of her flowers are broad and giving when in bloom, full and protective of their secrets in blossom. I love that even though she was a little worse for wear when I got her, with a little love and consistency, the tattered flowers slowly fell and a whole new batch came out, just for me.
Easter 09 is a Miltassia Charles M. Fitch Izumi. He smells like pepper. He looks like a tiger with an apron on. I'm a little apprehensive about his future, he needs to be repotted and I've never done that before. Mama Sonia was waiting forever to repot one of her orchids, it never stopped blooming and she didn't want to hurt the flowers...
A lot of what I do is subconscious. I don't directly know the reason for a thing until quite a bit later. My mother never had orchids that I can remember, my sisters don't keep them. I've never had a conversation with an orchid enthusiast that convinced me of their beauty and mystique. But, my grandmother had orchids. She kept them in the side room of her last home, surrounded by windows, nestled on a bed of glass pebbles that always had water in the bottom, so the humidity would be high for them. It struck me recently that I have orchids because she had orchids. And that my little dining table that sits in the rounded nook so closely resembles her little nook, it is almost chilling. And there are her silver candle holders. And there are the three little cups that Cousin Beriah made; she kept green tealights in them.
I think about Mama Sonia a lot, perhaps more than I did while she was alive, at the very least I think of her differently. During the year before she died, I was very worried and concerned. I wanted to be with her, I didn't want her to be lonely, I wanted to be sure that I heard all of the stories, that there weren't some forgotten tales that I had yet to hear.
The last time that I spent with her, I stayed in her apartment while she was in the hospital section. She had someone taking care of the plants, but the orchids looked bad, so I watered them. I think I might have killed them. Either someone else was doing their job and I overdid it, or someone had neglected them for too long and the shock of care did it. Now I'm thinking that it was an oversight of mine to have not brought them into her hospital room. Not that there was any room, she had so many flowers and cards, signs of love and concern from all of the others who couldn't be there all the time. While I was there, I oscillated between wanting to take care of her and wanting to make her happy. So, one day I would try to cook a healthy meal with lots of fresh veggies. The next I brought salmon pate and wine, both of which were not allowed by the doctor, I'm sure.
I know that I am a very sentimental person, and attach a great deal to the relics of my ancestors. Now I see that a lot of me is changing to make space for their spirits in my everyday life. I wear the ring of Granny Dot on my right hand, and lately I wear oxford shirts with skirts and loafers and cardigans, her everyday uniform. All I need is a hanky up my sleeve and there I am, my Grandmother. I think of Mama Sonia every day, I feel her with me. Is this what they mean when they say that someone is always with you in spirit? I dream about her almost every night, we are usually in a house, we are content, she reassures me, calms me. Perhaps a part of her is becoming me. I recreated her orchid corner in my house without intending to. I've grown awfully fond of mid-century modern design, always in reference to her furniture.
Most of the furniture she had was from the house in Puerto Rico. They had a designer do the whole thing, she said he was a genius. Those pieces lasted over 50 years, beautiful oversized pottery table lamps, with wooden accents half-way up. Long, low sideboards and cupboards, home to a lifetime of treasures for the table. The dressers and end tables describing a series of rooms in a time line of houses, always uncluttered and tastefully arranged.
I doubt that I will ever reach the status of "uncluttered" of my own volition, but to me the ideal exists in the memory of my Grandmother's house. It was never stark, never cold, and the pieces that charactered her life stood the test of time. The paintings of Spain spoke easiliy with an etching by my sister; the low couches with a little pillow I made as a child. Everything had it's place, and that place was intentional and created with love.
I'm thinking that this entry is the perfect introduction to my rearranging the living room... I'll take pictures.
