My cousin’s wife of 30 years, Elaine, has stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. Fortunately, their two girls are young adults and self-reliant. Three-hundred miles away, spring wildflowers are colorful and vibrant in south central Texas. Many fields are glowing with bluebonnets, paintbrush, groundsel, and phlox.
I don’t know Elaine that well. I know she worked in one of the most difficult of professions – a special education teacher in a public school – only to face this quiet ending before she was able to really enjoy the good life of retirement. I know at holiday gatherings where we made small talk and no one was really comfortable, she’d often stay out of sight, probably because she was mild-mannered and shy.
These days, I only see my cousin, Darrell – Elaine’s husband, every few years at a Thanksgiving or Christmas get-together. Distance and time have taken their toll. Several years my elder, Darrell lived about a half-mile away as we were growing up, and our houses were separated by pastures of green grass and open skies. I remember when I was young, Darrell would take me on his horse and, with fishing poles in tow, we’d ride through the trees to a hidden pond in search of aggressive perch and hungry bass. We’d sit in the summertime shade and eat our gooey peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches from brown paper sacks, all the time watching our bobbers and listening to the sounds of a breeze rustling through willow trees. At the time, it seemed like we were kings of the earth, and this sanctuary was ours alone. Looking back, we were just kids in the country enjoying a life with little worry nor responsibility. But we grew older; life brought change.
Though I think she was born in Texas, Elaine went to college in Utah. I’m not sure how they met, but I know Darrell visited her, traveling back and forth from Texas to visit his love. I remember their wedding, too. He wore a late 70s baby blue suit that still makes me chuckle.
Years later, with childhood far in the rear-view mirror, I have two young girls of my own, and I struggle with being a good dad. I love my girls as best I can yet always feel like I’m inadequate at this one big task in life. Darrell is just trying to keep his life together while facing an inevitable loss. I don’t know how he’ll fare. I don’t know how I’d get along, nor how anyone really handles this.
Yet in all this darkness, wildflowers are blooming. Beauty remains outside the cold window of a hospital room.
I drove around areas south of San Antonio last week chasing wildflowers, and I tried to make sense of this situation. I’ve been trying to make sense of things going on 40 years now, but I haven’t come across any burning bushes yet.
Seasons of colorful wildflowers – really vibrant spring times – don’t come around often – maybe once every five or so years. When the delicate petals of blue, purple, gold and red show up, I try to make the most of the weeks we have with wildflowers and am on the road photographing their ephemeral beauty. And sometimes I don’t pull out the camera. Rather, I just enjoy the moment. It seems that’s how life is – made up of single moments we try to hold onto – or let go of – in our memory. And as sure as the slanting last light of sunset fades, the seasons of spring and color I search for turn to summer, then are lost to cold and darkness, but eventually they find the way back.
I’ll try to linger in my spring – with my family – as long as life allows.
I hope Darrell and Elaine can find their spring again, though it will likely soon be in spirit only. These seasons are short, but I know Spring ultimately prevails.
Wildflowers are blooming somewhere.
Lupinus texensis, or Texas bluebonnet, is a Texas favorite among wildflowers. It is also the official state flower of the Lone Star State. Once known as buffalo clover, these blue wildflowers seem to put everyone into a state of wanderlust when springtime comes. This portrait of a single bloom was taken on a calm evening in the Texas Hill Country.
Happy Travels, my Friends,