Insulation

Baby, it's cold outside! The bit of snow that fell on my gardens, lawn, and deck last Saturday did not disappear until yesterday. The purple heart at the front step, which was blooming up until last weekend, turned into a slimy brown mess, and has been removed from where it sprawled on the front porch, its roots waiting out the winter under a mulch blanket. The cheerful hot pink, pale pink, and purple balls of the bachelor's button, that brightened the front garden on and on through the late summer and long fall, are brown; and the Mexican petunia is ready to cut down. The hydrangeas have finally given up their insistence on putting out new growth.

The pansies, though, the pansies are the winter garden's hardy little faces. They appear to be defeated under their blanket of icy snow, but already today--though it is just a bit warmer, they have perked back up. Rather than killing them, the snow insulates and protects them. In places, such as Florida, fruit trees are intentionally sprayed with water when temperatures become unusually cold. When the water freezes, the sensitive blossoms or immature fruit are protected at 32 degrees from the much colder air temperature. It is interesting to me that something can survive by being frozen. Everything, apparently, has its breaking point. The ice insulates.

Adversity sends some flora and fauna underground, while others are more resilient, but they all find their own ways to insulate themselves against the cold. Some, like the purple heart, must go underground for protection; the hydrangea canes turn woody to insulate their core, and in the spring leaves and new green stems emerge from the hard stem. The yellow blooms of the winter jasmine began appearing last week; it is the heat that is adverse to it. And others, like the pansies and the Creeping Jenny, hang tough in the elements. I don't know where the moles go--do they hibernate?--but I am glad they are gone. I saw a raccoon lumbering across the snowy yard in the moonlight last weekend. And Smudge has grown her heavy coat and continues to want to go out into the cold first thing in the morning. Insulation comes in many forms.

Elizabeth Edwards was laid to rest yesterday, next to the grave of her beloved son, Wade. I visit Wade from time to time on my cemetery walks. I wonder who, now, will care for the garden that is his, and now Elizabeth's, final resting place. I never saw Elizabeth, or anyone else, there; but her presence is clear. Every now and then a new plant or bit of garden art has shown up. I have sat on his bench and told him that his parents were doing the best they could, and none of the mess in their lives was his fault.

Both John and Elizabeth insulated themselves in their own ways against the pain and grief and stress in their lives. Elizabeth was engulfed in her profound grief at Wade's death. I can only imagine that it must have been hard on her family. I understand that she underwent rigorous fertility treatments to get pregnant two more times, at an age when surely that was not in their original plan. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 55, she had not had a mammogram in four years. Why? Did she choose not to? Did she forget? Did she think she wouldn’t get caught? John, though less has been heard about it, surely also profoundly grieved the death of his son. He already worked hard in his career; did he put in even longer hours before deciding to throw himself into politics, and their family into the public spotlight? Did John consciously make a decision to seek another woman as a place of insulation from the grief and stress of home and work? Did he convince himself it wouldn’t hurt his family and his career? Did he think he wouldn’t get caught? I don't think they thought about it. I don't believe they were capable of thinking about it. It just was.

I neither condone nor condemn either of them for the ways they found to cope. I am uncomfortable around conversation that vilifies John while elevating Elizabeth to saint status. I do not believe either of them intended to heap greater pain on the other; but they were both careless--Elizabeth with her health and John with his expressions of love. And in the end they each hurt the other; and they both left the life they had made together. That society demonizes those who deal with their pain in some ways while martyring--or at least turning a blind eye toward--those who cope in other ways, goes against the teachings of what I know of the Book. Jesus forgave the adulterous woman; can we do less? And yet, we keep throwing stones.

Why do we hurt each other? Why do we insulate ourselves in ways that cause pain to those we love the most? I believe we are capable of great pain only because we are also capable of great love. (And there are many who cut themselves off from love in order to avoid the pain.) But I am not convinced that we always choose our actions. We don’t always have the strength required to do what somewhere deep down we know is the right thing. Right in our heart, and the hearts of those we love, that is; conventional mores should not be at the top of our list of that to which we conform. Society doesn't always get right what is acceptable and what is not. Sometimes ourselves are all we are capable of considering--and it gets us in trouble whether our actions are visible to a world beyond or only to our own small world, or perhaps only within ourselves. When our actions are sure to lead to destruction, I am sure we would choose differently, if we could but choose.

We read in the news this past week that members of the small family church in Kansas that protests at military funerals to demonstrate its opposition to homosexuality were planning to be in Raleigh to demonstrate at the services for Elizabeth. This because she was vocal in her belief that people should be allowed to love whomever they love. The North Carolina Council of Churches issued this statement to newspapers statewide: "The protesters from Kansas have come many miles to spread their hatred at Elizabeth Edwards' memorial service. Let us be clear: the Bible calls us to kindness and respect for one another, and Jesus Christ preached throughout his life that we should love one another. The protesters' appalling and repeated violation of the sacred services by which we honor our dead, along with their representation of themselves as messengers of Christ, are offensive and misrepresent Christian faith." Reportedly 200-400 (depending on which story one read) people planned to form a "line of love" in a two-block perimeter around the church to insulate the Edwards from the expected ten protesters. That makes me proud to live in Raleigh. I would be very proud if the population of humanity would forgive John for his duplicity; and I will forgive Elizabeth for not paying attention to her health. And I will continue to get an annual mammogram and do monthly self-checks at home.

As winter sets in, I light my fire against the cold. I will dress warmly and continue my cemetery walks. It is most beautiful in the barrenness of winter and in the snow. I do not want to insulate myself in ways that keep out beauty. (And, by the way, Cate Edwards in her eulogy yesterday, said that her mother taught her many things, including to beware of wearing prints, but that she would never regret solids. Apparently she failed to tell her to wear a coat over her short, sleeveless solid black dress when it was 40 degree drizzle outside.)

In nature, when the air warms again, the protective ice will melt from the pansies and the fruit trees and let the sun in. Humans, however, tend to hold on to our insulation beyond its need. This Advent season, my prayer for all of us is that we may let go of any unhealthy protection from pain, grief, disappointment, and anger that keeps out hope, peace, joy, and love. And no matter the season in which I leave this garden for whatever lies beyond, and let go of the healthy and unhealthy ways in which I insulate myself, I want Joy to the World to lead me out. Thank you, Elizabeth, for all of the ways you modeled beauty and resilience. Rest in peace.