The Purple Petunias

The temperatures at night are getting pretty cold for our area of Washington State, hovering between 28  to 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Most of our flowers in the backyard have gone dormant, and some have died. There are about four petunia flowers who are still blooming,of a bright purple color. They stand straight and tall, proud and determined, surrounded by their faded, shriveled, dusty brown sisters that shared the kitchen and bedroom window boxes with them. I was moved to see the four purple flowers stretch their eager heads upwards to the blue sunny skies we have enjoyed the last week. They remind me of me, of my struggle to thrive, to not be overcome by past sorrows and struggles, to ignore the winter around me, so to speak, and just focus on the sun, the light, the hope. There is merit to stubbornness, to the determination to ignore the possible problems, and not letting them define you, to just forge on, and enjoy every bit of light and sun that comes your way, never mind that winter is just around the corner. The energy produced by optimism is intoxicating, and contagious, and often can turn the corner on storm clouds. I like the idea of being a purple petunia, of being someone who does not surrender easily or without a good fight. No one gets out of here alive, as we all are aware of, but how we exit, the style, the attitude, that is within our power. I am not a fan of winter, and its diminished light and warmth, but I realize that my disliking it is rather irrelevant. Winter is coming, so, might as well make the best of it. To me, winter is nature's reminder that death is real. Death too, is rather unavoidable, from all evidence, no matter how much our society likes to pretend we are all going to live forever, if we just keep coloring our hair and using that fancy night creme. But in my experience, having stood at the coffin of my youngest sister, who took her own life at 35, and having kissed her ice cold forehead, death is very real and the more acceptance for its reality, the more peace in our heart, the more determination to truly live. She was not afraid, she jumped in to the arms of death, eyes wide open. Some see suicide as an act of cowardice, but I see her death as an act of incredible fearlessness, the result of a deep desire to regain control over her tortured mind, to reclaim a sense of dignity as her bi-polar illness spiraled out of control, and she felt a prisoner in her own body. She hung herself, with a lasso, from the rafters in my parents' garage. She decided she would no longer evade the long winter that was coming for her, as her doctors increased her anti-psychotic medications, only worsening her despair. That is why I like my purple petunias out there, reaching up to the light, its warmth and color, while it is still there, even though they know it is just a matter of time before their purple petals turn sad and shy, and dusty grey, as winter rewards their defiance with its icy grip  and grim determination and turns my beautiful flowers into black, brittle regret.