Daughters of Poppies

Bloodlines, ancestors and the Summer Solstice

She was born on the 11th day of the 11th month over 100 years ago. Like the machines she worked on during World War Two, she was an enigma. Beautiful, unknowable and whip-smart, she died not long after a medal arrived for her in the post. If it wasn’t for this very ordinary day, when a non-descript package arrived, we’d never have known that she had been a code breaker at Bletchley Park. She was skilled in the lost art of keeping secrets and would never have volunteered the information if it wasn’t for the medal. For us, filled with pride, it seemed like an esteemed achievement worth marking somehow, but for such an understated woman it was fitting that she insisted no fuss was made. She was our grandma. Her name was Poppy.

Every single year without fail I try and find poppies as some sort of matrilineal ritual, and every single year, the poppy field moves. What I mean by this is that they don’t seem to grow in the same place. It’s often around the same hamlet, but never in the same field. These flowers en masse are elusive and I end up looking in secretive places, inaccessible by car. Stout boots and no time restrictions are usually necessary, but even then, some years I haven’t found them. This makes it all the more precious when I do. This year I was in luck, I found the meadow full of poppies and stayed until the rain came.

Even though she died sixteen years ago, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to separate poppies from the memory of my grandmother. Although her birthday was in November, it’s at this time of year when I remember her the most vividly, when I’m walking beside meadows filled with ephemeral red petals. She hated her name even though we all loved it, and even though poppies are such pretty wildflowers. She was wonderfully complex.

I wonder how reliable memories are in the fullness of time. Are the details that we remember about lost loved ones accurate? Or an idealised version of them? Or perhaps somewhere between the two: picturescapes filling our mind’s eye with ‘best of’ highlights and projected warmth. Perhaps accuracy has no place at all when it comes to remembering those we have lost. Instead grasping for the reminder of a loved one and grasping for memories before they fade even more, until like a leaf skeleton just the very essence remains. I like to think that love is enough.

Feeling connected to family members who have passed away tethers me to lineage that I don’t want to forget. Even the more distant ancestors hold some space in my mind and psyche, like an invisible thread. A line of strong women overcoming all kinds of adversity, bringing life and fighting spirit to each generation. Bloodlines and ancestral stories bridge the gap between the past and the present. In this way my search for poppy fields helps me to feel close to my grandmother again.

The blooming of the poppies in June not only represents a personal connection to a lost loved one, they also mark the arrival of the Summer Solstice.

With the Solstice comes the most intense energy of the year. Nature is burgeoning and full to bursting with life and light. Being caught up in it feels intoxicating. Although I wouldn’t describe myself as a summer person, my delight at Solstice is from seeing the natural world brimming with brightness and colour, not to mention the sweet, celebratory relief that comes with feeling sun on bare skin. It brings tiny joys like hearing skylarks and seeing swallows weave in and out of tall grasses. It also has bittersweet poignancy. Evanescence and fragility exist alongside the revelry. Just as the Summer Solstice is reached, the year tips over into its waning half. And just like the poppies with their delicate crepe petals—which bring such beauty and yet fade at the slightest touch—there is life with death, love with loss, light with dark. Perhaps this is even more of a reason to celebrate moments like the longest day as there’s all the more joy for it, knowing it is so fleeting.

I’ll leave you with some skylarks in the breeze.

Solstice blessings.