A bouquet of bright magenta, emerging from the fog.

Of a cold, dreary Sunday morning.

God speaks to, and through, my heart.

Through the camelia, whispering:

I cherish you deeply, my child.

Vous etes mon coeur.

Camelias have long symbolized unspoken affection, and are the flower of vulnerable hearts.

They are quietly beautiful, and unexpectedly present in a cold season where a blooming flower is the last thing one would expect to see.

In Victorian floriography (flower language), giving someone a camellia said: “you are the flame in my heart, and I want to be held with care.”

It’s a flower of mutual recognition, two souls meeting without pretense.

In the South, camellias are often planted in old homesteads, gardens and cemeteries. Which is where I found my bouquet this morning.

I could feel the spirit of my grandmothers in the petals and calyx which fall together in a whisper of “we do not abandon each other”.

In this moment, the tears started to fall.

I felt seen.

In my desire to be met with devotion.

In my grief and tenderness and longing.

In my readiness for love.

In the opening of a heart that has been mourning, carrying and moving

…all alone for far too long…

Yet blooms, anyway.