For the Love of Blossom

and my father

The blossom in the town where I live has been really late to bloom this year. It’s only been the last week or so when I have finally noticed the pastel bunches spilling over hedge tops and covering paths in pink and white confetti. In the local orchard, the apple trees are just starting to open their buds. The bright green of the new leaves is being temporarily overshadowed by the peachy pinks of the flowers and seeing them is making me feel sentimental.

Blossom reminds me of the cherry tree we had at the bottom of the garden in my childhood home. It was huge. There was a swing underneath one bough, and a tractor tyre that my father hung from the opposite one. It was a tree of play and joy, particularly in March when the first pink petals started to show through and we knew that we’d soon have a month of rosy coloured ‘rain’ as we adventured amongst its branches. 

Blossom is a song by Dad’s favourite musician James Taylor - the soundtrack to my childhood. 

You see, I can’t think of blossom without thinking of my Dad. 

My father and I have had a somewhat challenging relationship over the years. We are very similar in character. My father, like me, is also autistic (although he doesn’t like to talk about it). We share many of the same difficulties and find ourselves in similar areas of the spectrum. I often think all this would be a reason to bond or battle it out together. But what I’ve realised is that sometimes looking at a loved one is like looking in a mirror, and that can be extremely painful. We don’t always like what we see. 

My father is stubborn, he’s incredibly proud, impatient, never ever admits it when he’s wrong, and can be very controlling too. But he’s also deeply caring, protective, sensitive and he has the best laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. I’ve secretly recorded it many times, because one day he won’t be here and I want to still be able to hear it. 

Ideologically, philosophically, sociologically and politically, my father and I disagree. We have had some spectacularly damaging rows in the past - some were so bad that we didn’t have any contact for years. They were grim, agonising years for both of us. And in this case, the blame certainly doesn’t sit with just one person. 

In more recent years, with the benefit and privilege of time creating some thinking space, (and perhaps the gaining of some sort of wisdom), we gradually managed to repair our fragile relationship. 

It would be wrong to claim that things are great and perfect, but the relationship I now have with my father is something I never thought that I would have: precious and patient. 

Despite our differences in outlook, we share the same love of music, nature and seeking the tiniest details of each season. In more recent years we’ve tried to land on this common ground and nurture it as much as we can. 

We steer clear of topics which pour fuel on the flames of conflict and have found a happier space, somewhere in the middle, where the flag of peace flies with hope. We discuss the best tippers for bodhráns and chat about woodpeckers, red squirrels and muntjac deers. A current subject of much mutual excitement is the spring blossom. We swap Whatsapp notes on the emerging varieties lining the lanes in our respective towns. 

Blossom has shown us common ground. With all its gentle frothy petals, has it been a covert facilitator of conversation? A mediator perhaps? Both, probably. 

On the one hand, blossom is blossom. It’s beautiful, it needs no words to add to its glory. It is simply an ephemeral and incredibly pretty collective of flowers. On the other hand, the lure of its beautiful canopies has softened the edges of years of hurt and misunderstandings. Softened them enough for re-remembering to happen: for gaps of common interest to open up again and gradually take up more space than the anger and sadness.

So I cannot think of blossom, without thinking of my Dad.