When I see lilacs in bloom, I have to stop. Sometimes it’s out in the country where enormous old bushes grow beside abandoned barns. Sometimes it’s in the alleys of my neighborhood where they grow beside garages that used to be stables.
These orphan bushes that nobody waters or prunes are—once again—lavish with their gifts. And I stop what I’m doing to admire the rich colors—dark purple, rosy pink, palest violet, brightest white. I lean into the moist clusters and inhale that honey lavender smell.
Now, it’s true you can buy lilac bushes at a nursery and plant them in your back yard. I have done this myself and confess the results have been disappointing. The branches are spindly, the blossoms spare.
Lilacs, it seems, resist cultivation—and do better in forgotten places with full sun and freedom. I admire this. They speak to me of something in myself that yearns to grow wild at the edges, to flourish untended, and pour out my glory for one brief moment. Maybe someone will stop; maybe not.
And remember, if you pick lilacs, they will wilt in an hour. Better to lean into the living blossoms and bury your face in fragrance.