Welcome SkyWatchers! Please say hello. I enjoy meeting all of you!
hello. As I spent some time staring at this magical plant, the name Agapanthus suddenly rose forth from the inner recesses of my mind. An Agapanthus. And as quickly as the name made it to the forefront of my mind, I knew that that is what this unexpected visitor was called.
We are not the first owners of this beautiful little beach house. We purchased it from a lovely couple who had spent at least ten years enjoying this healing space. And when my brother died, two years ago, and Mark and I decided that there was no time like the present to live out a dream, we came to this lovely couple and put a bid in on their home. We were sure that the place would be ours. That was until we discovered that another couple had put a bid in on the home at the same time we had. A bit of a bidding war ensued until I decided to write a letter to the owners telling them why I felt that the home should be sold to our family. I put it out there and then we waited. And waited...Until I received a beautiful letter from the homeowner telling me what this place meant to her, and how much she and her husband loved it. She told me about healing from cancer and getting married. She told me about the weddings of her two daughters that took place right out here on the bluff. She told me about the ashes of two fathers(hers and his) which took flight right in our front yard overlooking the Pacific. And I knew, in the moments that it took for me to read her letter, that somehow, someway, this place was meant to be passed forward to us.
There are two of these Agapanthus stalks standing side by side. This is the second one. I read someplace that they are perennials, meaning that they reappear each year, and I can't help but wonder if they were planted in memorial for something. The landscaping on our bluff is breathtaking, but it is purposeful. And yet, sometimes things seem to pop up out of nowhere, and I think to myself that someone in the history of this beautiful home must have planted those there. A singular sunflower, two lanky Agapanthus stalks, things that reach over space and time. Things that had a particular meaning to someone gone, yet they are still here. They are still here. They are still here.
We leave behind an imprint of who we are, who we were. Oftentimes, the imprint is soft and quite subtle, the lingering touch of a hand brushing past another hand, a word which hangs in the air creating ideas and then thought. The imprint can be that of the words in a letter long tucked away somewhere but not forgotten. Or the reemergence of a flower planted to commemorate what we felt at a certain time in our lives. What we left behind for them, what they left behind for us.
Gazing out at my bluff overlooking the Pacific ocean, I am reminded that even when we leave, we always leave something behind. And I am left to wonder, what will I leave here? In this place? That will someday be someone else's healing spot. And suddenly I have the urge to head down to the nursery to purchase some flower bulbs. Some perennials might be nice. Something strong and hearty and healthy enough to stand up to the Pacific's winds.