Peonies + Memory

What are we allowed to remember? What would we rather forget? How do we carry the unforgettable?

Every May, I hire myself to stand guard as full-time Peony Watcher. Early May still roars through Indiana, missing April’s memo, toying with her white flag and our hearts. Every couple of days, I schlep outside to the bushes flanking the steps of the play house my kids haven’t played in for at least five years.

I count the buds. I pinch them lightly between my thumb and forefinger. (Someone once said they’re getting close when they squish like a marshmallow.)

The days tick by and we tilt closer to the sun. I dig out my flip flops. We scrub down patio furniture. I plant annuals in terra cotta pots with one eye on the play house.

Somewhere around this time, give or take a week, I catch the first flash of salmon pink. It’s always a thrill. We made it! The Summer Queens make their proclamation of hope, and I am here to bear witness. Thanks be to God.

My next thought is always death.

Here in the Midwest, bloom-time usually coincides with Memorial Day, but there’s more to this memory than war.

Three years ago, as I watched my COVID peonies bloom, the news of George Floyd’s murder ricocheted through our nation. The sun bleached the blooms from bright coral to pale yellow and my family dragged Sharpies across poster board for our first official protest. I remember my cloth mask, damp against my face and the angry White men who idled their trucks on Main street, revving their engines as some kind of threat. I remember the fear on Silas’s face and how I worried we were getting something wrong. I remember the anxiety and adrenaline choking Cal’s voice later that night as he processed what the protest felt like inside his own Brown body.

Beneath blue skies and birdsong, distinct core memories took shape.

(Do you remember?)

In 2010, I sat inside my dream home with two pre-schoolers and a toddler who had been my son for less than two months and wrote about the old fashioned peonies in full bloom at the edge of our lane:

“I look at them and wonder how long they’ve been here. I like to pretend that they were planted when the foundation was being poured, a hundred years ago. I think of them as old ladies. Is that ok? So I extend them a bit of grace. I understand that they are tired and frail. It’s alright that they can’t stay long, that they wilt in the heat, that they droop in the rain, that they’re losing their hair… We co-exist happily here, two generations of ladies born in different times, but with a shared appreciation for soil the color of a chocolate cookie, lemonade sun, and the perfect shade tree.”

There was a time, not so long ago, when my peony thoughts were all lighthearted. I remember those days, but I barely recognize myself. I’m not sure I’ll ever untangle the violence from my peonies. The most privileged (and honest) part of me sure wishes I could.

It is 2023, and nothing feels better.

Peonies bloom while Black history books burn, facts to ash, dust to dust. We are not safer or more collectively whole. We are sliding deeper into peril.

Peonies bloom while I take Cal for tacos. A man one table over stuffs al pastor into his mouth with a gun clipped to his belt and I talk with my adult/child about whether this makes us feel safer. I say no and he says yes and I try (and fail) to recall the era of living full days without the tremor of violence.

Peonies bloom and I walk up the street to the doctor, bake a pie, carve a melon. I scrub at stains that won’t let go and scratch notes with a dried-up pen. I spit into a grimy sink and a familiar, quiet shame washes over me. I force myself to remember this place is a wreck because we are busy remembering other things.

Peonies bloom and I watch my children in full-sized bodies wrap up another school year. Last night Cal cooked dinner for me then sat on my bedroom floor chatting for over an hour until I politely asked him to leave so I could read. (!) Tomorrow his baseball team plays in Sectionals. In just one week he’ll cross the biggest stage of his life so far. Ruby is deciding where to focus her best efforts and applying at the popcorn shop. Silas is shaving his upper lip and pouring candles.

Peonies bloom, and it’s a good time to recommit to staying in active in this tension, at war only against death, angry with a purpose, hopeful because it’s the only way.

Peonies bloom and I am here, trying like hell to stay in the white-hot center of this particular life. I love it with my whole body. It breaks my heart, almost every day.

People like to talk these days about “rights.” Most times, it all feels muddy.

But peonies bloom and we have the right to bear awe.¹

Peonies fade and we have the right to remember.

I wish you all a holiday weekend filled with the stuff of the best kind of memories to balance all the rest. (See: sunshine, good watermelon, quiet mornings, naps, cooperation, laughter, and pie. Feel free to add to our wish list in the comments!)

Love,

Shannan

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This + That

:: Read

May is AAPI (Asian American Pacific Islander) Heritage Month and this new release is important and positively gorgeous. If the fact that it’s about a Korean American woman causes you to believe it’s not for you, my family (and so many others) asks you to reconsider.

“I come from a legacy of war and community, of survival songs and scandalous sins and unexpected strength. I come from the mountainous lands of Korea and immigrant homesteads built on stolen prairieland in Nebraska… To come close enough to love me is to be willing to change the script about what’s allowed to be normal, and it’s being willing to question what systems put and keep ‘normal’ in place. To know me and love me is to see and welcome my very Asian self in all its uniqueness and complexity.”

- Tell me the Dream Again by Tasha Jun

:: Eat

Pals, it is May (aka baseball season) (aka work travel season) (aka MAY) and I have not been cooking. I’d like to get my groove back, but summer doesn’t seem to be the time for that, so (shoulder shrug). I did recently brine pork chops in leftover (homemade) pickle juice and 10/10 recommend!

Other than that, all I have to offer is this:

Strawberry Toast

I could eat this every morning.

I first had it at a hipster coffee shop over a year ago and I thought about it dozens of times. It’s peak berry season, so let’s get to it!

Toast a slice of grainy bread. (I don’t normally love grainy bread but it’s magic here.)

Spread with whipped cream cheese.

Take out your microplane and zest a lemon generously over the cream cheese.

Top with sliced strawberries.

Drizzle lightly with honey.

Pairs well with black tea or a butterscotch latte.

:: Listen

If you like listening to things that make you angry…

I’m halfway through This Land season 2 podcast, about the legal battle over a Native American toddler and “how the far right is using Native children to quietly dismantle American Indian tribes.” (From the podcast website.) 

(Have this episode of The Bible Binge queued up as an emotional counterweight.)

:: Remember + Live

The Complexity of community is the essence of community…It’s messy or it isn’t real. Our lives are on fire in a thousand different ways, no two burn patterns the same. It’s not all tragedy. Lit by the embers of each other, we remember we aren’t alone and carry that warmth with us.

- Start with Hello (just $12 right now!)

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This was a free, public, monthly newsletter. If you know of anyone who might appreciate it, feel free to share! I’m currently working on some special summer hope just for The Secret Soup (paid portion.)

It’s just $5/month. Join us!

1. As I was typing “we have the right to awe” a better phrase arrived, “the right to bear awe.” I went with it, and I love it, but I cannot escape the thought that it may have originated somewhere other than inside my noggin at 5 pm on a Friday. A quick Google search did not yield results. If you happen to know of a source, let me know! Also? Maybe my best work shows up like a memory. I’m good with that, too.