The Year of the Bloom
written by Shelby Gene
Published June 2026
Six months into the Year of the Bloom. Reflection requires recollection.
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It’s winter. While the garden sleeps, roots grow in mason jars sitting atop kitchen counters and windowsills. There is quiet air so cold it stings. We sing, we laugh, and we cry. At dusk our voices paint brush strokes of hot air, and our bodies reach for familiar warmth. As the sun rises, the days pass. Brown sleeping grasses paint the path between destinations.
The air is still, the dragonflies have laid their eggs and returned to their marshes. Yet, the chimes ring a familiar rhythm in the air. The birds seek stasis, and for a while they sing elsewhere. It is still.
The winds blow, seasons change.
She awakens, and her garden grows. The Sun lingers, days are longer. The crickets louder. The moon’s glow, softer.
It is spring.
I can smell the honeysuckles.
I can imagine the taste of blackberries fresh off the vine.
I know the feeling of my toes in the creek as I look up and watch the clouds roll on by.
Oh the crows, the cardinals, the robins, the bluejays…
the mockingbirds sing, the hummingbirds wings.
Finally, the birds return. Sing-song chatter is what they sing. Tooo-tooo-tootolil Tu-tu-tu. A slooooow chirrup echoes from cherry tree branches. A cardinal says hello, and for a moment, an unworldy wind washes relief over my worried mind. Cusp of spring carries this creeping worry the brown grass will never again glow green. The hyacinth stretch outwardly with their spider like ribbons for leaves. Tulips emerge eager to bloom, and ladybugs dance around the crocus flowers.
As the sun rises, She brings solar heat. A sorrow sets in as the tulips begin to wilt. Clear skies and sunny days, in early spring left begging for rain. Mother Nature is away, yet I tend to it all anyway. I bring buckets of rain, collected from a spout, and poured out the intention to grow. I convinced myself it took more time to worry than to go. So, out into the sunshine I’d go.
The souls in the garden have shown me the way.
The souls in the garden have shown me it’s okay, better days are on their way.
A prayer answered: sorrows sewn by the Universe, energy alchemized into water and mist. It is spring.
It’s raining.
Green vines and stems emerge. Blossoms are soon to fruit. Dragonflies dance around and do their work to keep the wasps away. The bumblebees take what is meant for them, collecting pollen from the bright yellow tomato blooms destined to blush yellow, orange, and cherry red hues.
We are in the garden.
The blackberries change from soft white flowers into violet reminders of everything sweet. An apple trees grow upward and outward, waiting for the moment it is strong enough to bare fruit; figs ripen, peaches fill the air with temptation. The Sunflowers’ leaves span the ground, and just as June arrives, their blooms begin to dance in the wind and reach for Her light. Once empty spaces of green, small black seeds have transformed into towering stalks of happiness.
Roses sprawl, blooms dry. Ladybugs nest, spiders spin their webs. The Hollyhocks sway towards the sky, dandelions multiply.
The flowers bloom, the trees fruit.
Caterpillars spin their cocoons, and they wait for the seasons to change, even if they won’t remain the same.
I have been praying since February, and finally the zinnias emerge. Their leaves grow upward and outward, blooms spilling from branching stems that sway in the wind. Eventually, swallowtails will nest inside their whimsy. For now, we wait.
I walk the garden path as the sun rises and sun sets. Grass tickles the bottom of my feet, rose thorns interrupt with a quick “Ouch!” and pluck. In the heavy, hot air you must not forget to water your roots. Soon it will be summer, but for now Spring remains. As I tend to this garden, my vision is filled with every ray of light, and I am reminded of who I have always been. I am assured of who I am.
Who you are will take you so far when you realize:
You have the ability to change, the ability to grow.
The ability to transform, and leave what you know.
Anticipating the New Year, I had found myself lost in a Starry Night, as if beside Van Gogh in his dreams. I took notes from the wind, imitating the crickets and scattering my sound like cicadas in summer. I cast my wish for the year, words and blessings echoed into the void. The moment the Year began, I decorated my body with purple satin and monarch butterflies as I exclaimed “I believe in myself!”
In January, heavy stones rearranged into blank canvases of tilled soil are waiting for their purpose. Rubbery hyacinth leaves peaked between browned grasses. There were bursts of cold air, and bright white snow covered the ground as February arrived. The air was too warm for the moment to last. I took to my piano in ritual, warming my body with rhythm on the coldest days.
My ears directed my clumsy, shaking hands from one key to the next. My mind and body struggled to connect as my creative exploration shifted from reflection to question. A journey was unfolding at my fingertips; I was blissfully unaware. As the snow melted, I couldn’t help but daydream of Spring. Dragonflies and familiar faces fill my sketchbook. I sing freely into the ether. I am inspired to the point of expression. As the lights flickered on, I’m like a moth to a flame. Inspired, yet speechless as soon as I walk away from the piano. As I muse about the beautiful faces and places surrounding me, I gain the courage to admit to my own inhibitions.
I’m a dragonfly.
A beautiful social butterfly.
I’m fluttering and buzzin’ on by.
My feet are possessed by a rhythm of happiness, and home smells sweet. I close my eyes, transported to my Nana’s pecan trees where my brother would climb high into its branches and the nuts would clink clunk onto the ground. I remember sitting by the fireplace with buckets of pecans, cracking them open, and washing them in Nana’s sink on my tippy toes. Sugar sweet pie sits at the top of my tastebuds, and I can feel the pecans between my teeth. I’m so far from home, and I’m not sure I can even find my way back.
If I close my eyes and focus, I am taken back to the softest moments of childhood which, for me, exist between pure chaos and fear. Home lives in my deepest memories. It smells a lot like peppermint and rose potpourri. It tastes exactly like pecan pie and cherry cheesecake. Home rings out with the Sound of Music, and Judy Garland echoes into quiet moments. My feet dance to a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang rhythm. When I open my eyes, I find myself in rooms full of plants and smiling faces, playing familiar games with free spaces. For a split second, I’m walking into that little house among the willows and it feels as if I’ve arrived at my own doorstep. Shelby.
I get lost in a familiar reflection. For once, I like what I see.. I dipped my toes in the creek. Butterflies at my feet, I didn’t make it past the shallow edge before the current would pull itself out from under me. I could not swim. So I take a seat at the bend’s edge, and reflect with my head perched onto my knees. Questions flood me.
If I can not swim, then surely I should be able to fly? My feet must leave the ground one way or another, or is it just me? What is it about me?
A heavy stone falls into my stomach, and something screams for me to shrink. Spring is meant to bring change, but it is all just too much for me, I think.
I begin to write my thoughts in ink, tucking them away into notebooks only I can read. If there’s one person who can keep me safe, I’ve learned, it’s me. I let it go, and I let it all out. I sing the blues, and I ask myself, what is love about? Who am I when I give it too freely, and why am I so hesitant to demand I receive?
Luckily, the birds return to me, and they encourage me to see it through. The birds sing, and I repeat.
I’m a ladybug.
I know I’m enough.
June’s breeze blows hot heavy heat, dragonflies scurry in fields and meadows in between. There’s a lemony sweet salt that sits right above your lip, and there’s an urge to move quickly. In the land of the pines, shoulders rock and boulders sway with the banjos beat. June is… jovial. The sun shines, rooms bounce and trains whistle.
I’m a butterfly.
I’m flying so high.
The urge to spread my wings overtakes me. I lose any sense of how I should behave. I allow my spirit to blink to the beat, shining with clouds that surround me. A hum buzzes through my chest, and bumblebees rest upon my shoulders. I am convinced.
The Summer heat is setting in.
It’s hotter than hell, isn’t it?
Water your roots, don’t forget it.
Summer solstice arrives. Thunderstorms roll in, and the stars align just in time. Better days are on their way.
I know it can all change in the blink of an eye, in a sunset.
The stars shape the world around us,
drive the seasons to us, and warn us when
the rain might overwhelm us.
I want to stand in the rain and sing. I want to live my life in the light with the door wide open. I want to love and be loved loudly, speak poetically, and be held firmly enough to calm my nerves but loosely enough to spread my wings. I want to fly, flutter at times, and buzz into the warmth of the flame moths seek.
