It's been nice. We watched a lot of Big Dreams, Small Spaces over the winter, and it inspired us a lot. I've been growing vegetables for years, but we're taking on a bunch of other projects.
One of them was clearing out old growth from the blackberry patch that popped up a few years ago, thanks to a squirrel that buried a berry in our shade garden. We've been enjoying those blackberries for a while, despite getting our arms scratched up by the thorns.
I wrote about that blackberry patch a year ago. The old shade garden had some daffodils planted in it, and when they come up in spring, it gives me some things to think about.
The daffodils are popping up now, so I'm sharing the piece that I wrote last year for The Mighty.
The flowers among the thorns had its own lessons.
Maybe clearing out some of those thorns has a lesson, too?
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Finding Hope Among the Thorns of Cancer
We can learn a lot from flowers.
About 10 years ago, I was diagnosed with follicular lymphoma, a slow-growing but incurable blood cancer.
It was about that same time, 10 years ago, that spring became my favorite season.
As a native New Englander, I have always loved fall. Beautiful foliage. Cool weather. Long sleeves. Sweet apples. Fall is a great time of year.
But when I became a cancer patient, something in me starting to love the spring. Snow melts. Brown things turn green. The sun shines a little brighter. Long sleeves come off on warm afternoons.
It was about that same time, 10 years ago, that a neighbor took down an old, rotting tree. Suddenly, there was enough sunlight in a dark corner of my backyard that I was inspired to plant some spring bulbs. Crocus. Hyancinth. Tulips.
And, of course, daffodils.
Daffodils are the cancer patients’ flower. They symbolize hope. They bring a warmth and brightness that signals spring, and all that comes with it – especially the promise of new beginnings.
That sunny patch gave me something to look forward to every spring.
And then, about four years ago, I slipped on some ice and badly injured my shoulder. (Even as a native New Englander, I’m not a big fan of winter.) I spent that spring recovering from surgery, my arm in a sling, with physical therapy three times a week through the summer.
My sunny patch suffered. Weeds took over, and squirrels dug up my spring bulbs for food after a particularly rough winter. My little patch was never the same again.
But squirrels giveth, even as they taketh away.
By fall, my bulb patch was infested with long thorny stems where tulips and hyacinth used to live.
The next spring, those thorny green stems were covered in small white flowers.
By August, those white flowers were replaced by sweet blackberries.
Apparently, while eating my bulbs, a squirrel had dropped some blackberries and gotten me started on a new hobby – making blackberry jam out of all the fruit I was soon harvesting.
And the squirrel was also kind enough to leave behind one spring bulb for me.
It was a daffodil, of course.
As a cancer patient, the lessons are obvious to me:
First, even in what seems like the greatest despair, you can find hope. That photo above was taken a week ago. Like a daffodil poking up through the thickest thorns, hope manages to survive and give us something beautiful.
And second, gifts sometimes come from the strangest places. Those annoying squirrels took away my bulbs but left me blackberries. Sometimes it’s hard to see, but even cancer can bring us gifts. Maybe we take better care of ourselves. Or pay attention to things we ignored before.
Or appreciate small things, like the sweet taste of a sun-warmed blackberry.
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