The Smile

Dear Avid Reader,

Spring pollen is flying. April is fading. It’s tulip time on State Street in Chicago.

I don’t grow tulips. Each fall I flirt with the idea. They would give my front yard a colorful lift. Once I bought bulbs to plant tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils with good intention to get them in the October ground before the first frost. The purchase was as far as I got with the process. Planting bulbs seems like a lot of work. Especially for someone like me who uses more trial and error than a green thumb when it comes to yard plantings. Plus, I don’t have a bulb planter. I don’t know how far to space the bulbs out. The soil has a lot of rocks in it. There’s so much bending involved. I don’t want to kneel on rough soil. It seems like a hassle to stoop and stand, stoop and stand, stoop and stand. Two autumns later, while cleaning out the garage, I found the bags of old bulbs and threw them out. They didn’t have a chance to thrive through my excuses.

But there’s something that tulips convey. Is it hope? Contentment? Warmth? Joy? Such are the sporadic blossoms in the yard of the butter yellow corner house down the block, or the stately patches of tulips on State Street. This morning, in garden beds up and down this iconic street, the blooms stand thick with elegance in cheerful lipstick pinks and reds, bridal whites and creams, and color blotched blossoms bleeding the likes of ketchup and mustard, and açai and coconut. Most of the tulips are at their peak bloom. Some of the blooms are wilting, expanding outward and curling downward. Here and there, a stem stands with just her seed pod showing, the browning petals having fallen on the lap of her leaves or scattered on the soil. I took a few extra minutes to savor their striking appearance against asphalt and stone facades. I bent over to their height. I admired their whimsical leaves, most of which pointed to the sky. I stared into their graceful structure. The brightness of their pigment. The fragility of their life. I decided to take a picture. A young woman walking toward the corner noticed my photographic dance with the tulips.

“I need to get my picture later this afternoon!” she announced.

“Have to get them while they last!” I declared.

“You know it!” she confirmed.

Her smile was as wide as Lake Michigan. Her teeth were as brilliant as the clouds. Her step was as lively as the tulips’ stance.

The joyful presence of the young woman reminded me of a quote I discovered on a sad day fourteen years ago. Or maybe the quote traveled to discover me. On a slightly hilly and meandering road through central Ohio while my husband drove us to the church for my brother’s funeral, I read: Your day will go the way the corners of your mouth turn. Often associated with Winston Churchill, these words prompted me to pause. I decided to try it out. The curve of my mouth was the width of a stream at best. But these eleven words changed how I walked into the church and through that day in Central Ohio and through the days and years since.

Some days it is not easy. It’s work. But it’s possible. Turning our frowns upside down requires a lot less muscular effort than planting flower bulbs. Whether it is—sadness, darkness, hatred, disappointment, injustice, conflict, estrangement, hopelessness, grief, betrayal, and anything else on the life challenge list—whatever cinder block exists or falls in our path, your day will go the way the corners of your mouth turn is a seed changer.

Until next time, you’ll find me with the tulips before they disappear.

Every day is a beginning. Rush slowly and be surprised.

Marie