Garden Ceremony for Mike

          The next ceremony for Mike's ashes, after the spontaneous ritual I did at Azalea Lake (see post on June 21, 2020), was with four of my closest women friends, in my garden, where the flowers were blooming yellow and lavender, and the lettuces, peas, and broccoli were flourishing. I seated us six feet apart, as much in the shade of the apple tree as I could get us. I had bought a rose bush for each guest to plant in a pot of soil in which she would incorporate some of Mike's ashes and had asked each friend to bring something to contribute to the ritual.

          Janet, Mike's and my yoga instructor, went first.

She told stories from yoga class about Mike, a novice to yoga, emphasizing his tenacity and willingness to do poses that were difficult for him. Then she read a quote from Pema Chödron, one of her favorite Buddhist writers: "To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest." (Oh, yes, I thought: as I have been by losing Mike). She planted the Royal Dane rose, which later graced me with a beautiful pink-orange blossom.

         Tracy was next.

She talked about being impressed with Mike's intelligence the first time she met him and with the way he was able to "keep up with" me, meaning also the physical activities we so enjoyed together (hiking and skiing). She played a YouTube rendition of Leonard Cohen's "If It Be Your Will" that started my tears flowing (but it was an appropriate time for tears!). Tracy planted the Ginger Syllabub rose.

          Kate talked about seeing me turn down other men during the years she has known me (that made me laugh!) and then watching me fall for Mike.

She sang "Spring and Summer," from John Denver's "Season Suite," as a reminder for me that I will find Mike in all of nature. The rose Kate chose to plant was the Rock Star.

          Joan was next.

She talked about the long friendship she and I have shared and what a joy it was to welcome Mike into my life. She read a poem about Mike she had written that morning and planted the Champagne Cocktail rose.

          Then it was my turn. Before reading my poem, "Arcs of Grief and Love," I explained what chiasmus was (the arcing patterns of this poem: references to me at each end of a line with two references to Mike within that arc, as in the first line, "My love could not conquer your cancer, and your illness could not succumb to my tenderness"). Then I read the poem and talked about what Mike had meant to me and how much I will miss him, repeating what I have said many times: Mike was the best companion I have ever had. I enriched the soil of the Dame de Coeur rose with a good bit of Mike's ashes and a splash of my tears before planting it.

          After the ritual we moved from the garden to the deck of the house, where my flower boxes  of petunias, lobelia, cosmos, and impatiens provided rich color and joy. For lunch I served the dinner Mike always prepared after yoga class: crackers with a variety of good cheeses, and fruit with yogurt. My good friends ate, talked, and laughed with me before exchanging air hugs and going on their way.

          I tend my roses carefully. They are doing well.

Royal Dane rose, first bloom