Thoughts On Moscow: The Blessing Of A Late Bloomer at 36 Weeks

I wanted to write something about Moscow, Idaho. About what it was like to live in Moscow, and what it was like to leave Moscow, and about the four years in Moscow that have changed me so much, and about how I hardly recognize myself after Moscow, but about how it is in only the very best possible ways, and about how much stronger and better I am because of Moscow.

But instead, I am am going to tell you about my peonies.

I always felt a dear kinship to the peonies living along my fence in Moscow. Those peonies, bless their hearts, never could seem to blossom on time.

I suppose it isn't true that I was a late bloomer, because the fact is, I wasn't. I was a near-early-to-normal bloomer, having grown hips where hips belonged by the time hips were expected, but I can't shake the notion that somehow a late bloomer I am nonetheless.

Just like, for instance, my peonies.

Three summers ago I accompanied my husband to every nursery in the great panhandle of Northern Idaho. His mission was to landscape the vast and barren stretch of earth extending southward from our fence to the curb, and mine was to purchase the perfect flowering shrub. A shrub that would turn me into a true woman. A shrub that I could put into the ground and nurture, thus establishing my own flowering roots in the soft earth of Idaho. That summer I discovered a deep love for blue hydrangeas, purple blooms of lilac, and also that summer was when I learned that the peony, my very favorite flower, is actually something which comes from a bush. My eyes were opened! Peonies for all!

Under the sun-drenched sky I lovingly pored over peony bushes, contemplating colors, bloom sizes, every possible possibility, before finally selecting my peonies. Three in pale pink, and one in deep fuchsia. I planted them in soft, rich dirt under a gentle June sun. Those peonies held deep promise for me and I was beside myself with peony dreams.

And then, nothing happened. My peonies went into the ground and stared into the sun and drank up all the water I lovingly gave them and just sat there. Oh, their stems grew tall and their leaves grew bushy, but those buds remained small and shut tight, unwilling to open or blossom or do anything spectacular. And I was so puzzled. Down the street, lazy bushes of peonies would heavily droop to the sidewalk, burdened with their blossoms, sagging with the weight of their easy fabulousness. I just couldn't understand it.

And then I realized that my peonies were taking after me.

Those four years I lived in Idaho I was struggling with my own blossoming. I was struggling to find meaning in my faith, struggling to find balance between work and my dreams, and even more profoundly, I was struggling to fulfill the very basic purpose of my creation.

I was that slow little peony bush, watching the other peonies bend and open and bloom, unable to unlock the secret for myself, frustrated and confused and incredibly sad.

But this is what I will remember about my Moscow: Each and every August, months after the other peonies in town had blossomed and faded and died, my own little peonies would finally burst open.

Three in pale pink, one in deep fuchsia.

And every August I would rediscover a hope caught up inside of my chest. Hope for my own eventual August.

So, happy August to me.