Wonder Forgives
The nice thing about not knowing what you planted is that you never know what you’re going to get. In the moment I order bulbs or seeds (I’ve given up on vegetables), I am certain I will remember where they go. But every year I plant pollinator flowers, as well as any other perennials the deer won’t eat; I am surprised when they bloom. I don’t remember planting bee balm— look at the gorgeous reds! Or I planted something long ago and gave up on it growing. This year, the lupines I put in the ground years ago came bursting up all over the yard with their purple spikes and long parasol leaves. Surprise! Living, rather than just surviving, is rooted in the capacity for wonder.
But the surprise that comes with death leaves wonder behind. Death always shocks us. Our brains are wired for denial. My late husband never said anything about dying, even through four separate cancers and countless treatments. He would be one of the slim percentages that live after going into hospice. I was devastated when I woke up one morning to find him gone from his body. Why the surprise? Perhaps our logical brains get beaten down by our emotions. It was years before I saw beauty again without feeling guilty that he wasn’t there to share it.
They say that planting a garden is a belief in beauty, in hope. I didn’t think so when I was a newly grieving widow. I saw gardening as a way to dig out my frustration. Few things are as satisfying as pulling a weed out by the roots. I saw it as a way to mow down my feelings, or clip out the anger. In the thirteen years since his death, I have found that wonder is also a part of grief.
The hummingbirds chitter each other away from the feeders and the butterflies open their wings to the sun. I believe in nature’s magnificence. I feel wonder coming back to me. She forgives my denial. She allows me awe.
Lisa Christina St John
Lisa St. John is a writer living in the Hudson Valley of upstate New York. She is the author of two poetry books, Ponderings (Finishing Line Press) and Swallowing Stones (Kelsay Books). She won first place in Anthology’s 2024 Poetry Award for “Through the Membrane” and is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee for “War is a Human Child.” Her poetry has appeared in The Poet’s Billow, Light, Entropy, New Verse News, SWWIM, and The Ekphrastic Review, and “Mowing the Lawn” was shortlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize. Her travel writing appears on GoNomad.com, and her essays in Grief Digest Magazine and Sleet Magazine. She is currently working on a memoir when the poems allow it. Lisa believes that art is hope and that there is beauty in possibility. Find more on her website, lisachristinastjohn.com.
