What I Come Back To

When I was a little girl, I had this little world in our backyard: a tiny brick patio, a patch of grass, flowers and bushes all around, and my favorite spot: the sandbox. I'd spend hours out there, dragging the hose over to make rivers, lakes, imaginary towns. Then I'd let the sand turn into squishy mud around my feet. We lived in a canyon, and behind our house was a hill thick with ivy. A cement retaining wall held the slope in place, and I could stand on my tippy toes, reach my hands up high above my head and just touch the top.

It was 1968. I was five. That backyard corner, with the sandbox and the flowers, was one of my secret places. The other was inside my closet. I was the second of four kids, born close together, one after the next. Our house was wild and noisy, full of energy, full of kids. My dad could be funny and charming, he played the harmonica, cracked jokes, danced around the living room, but sometimes he'd shift suddenly, like a door slamming shut. One moment, warmth and laughter, the next silence. Coldness. That unpredictability seeped into everything. And my mom, well... she was trying to hold it all together. Distracted, worn down, doing her best in a situation that was never fair to her.

But out in that little backyard corner, the world softened. There were violets and daises, little succulents, bougainvillea spilling color over the fence, and bright orange nasturtiums with their funny round leaves and peppery scent. I thought they were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. I talked to them like they were my friends, and I believed they heard me. They were always in the same place, dependable and kind. They didn't change. That brought me comfort.

Some flowers smelled sweet, others earthy and green. I remember brushing the soft petals on my face, breathing them in. Sometimes I'd even sneak a taste, the nasturtiums especially. I knew I probably shouldn't be eating flowers, but something about them made me feel better. Like they were giving me something I didn't have words for yet. Something gentle. Something that belonged only to me. 

Sometimes the things that soothe us as children, scents, textures, secret corners, the feel of petals on our skin, still hold the key to how we care for ourselves today. A particular smell, a warm patch of sun, the sound of water running, or the softness of a favorite sweater might still bring calm in a world that moves too fast.

So I wonder, what are your flowers? Where is that quiet corner that still knows your name?