The Dates of our Lives

One of my Mother's favorite flowers. blue hydrangea. 

March 30^th is a special day in our extended family: birthdays and anniversaries, births and deaths.  My grandson Tony was born on March 30;  my mom died on March 30;  my cousins Maribeth and Jack were married on March 30 (and today celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary); my brother Loren drove me to the airport on March 30, 2009, to begin my Peace Corps adventure in Ukraine, one of our last long conversations and goodbyes. Bittersweet. Other family events swirl around this date, before and after.   

Certain dates stand out in our lives forever, like November 23, the day president Kennedy was shot in Dallas, or 9/11.  We vividly remember where we were on those dates, what we saw, how we felt.

Oh sure, our personal special dates are not national events or national tragedies. They won’t make the news or shake the world. 

But they profoundly affect our lives, bring utter joy and utter sadness, bring change and begin new chapters. They open the floodgates of memory.  They are turning points on our journey.

As I watch the greening of Sylvania, the budding of trees and flowers in early spring,  I think of turning points.  I remember them all.  I remember my mom.  I remember her gardens, her love of flowers, a love so thoroughly embedded in both my sister Andy’s and my soul, as if mom had planted her seeds to grow in us.

March 30. A day signifying transitions, the greening of memory, the flowering of new life.