The Language Of Flowers

I just completed the book The Language of Flowers written by Vanessa Diffenbaugh, and I thoroughly enjoyed this read. The story kept me engrossed throughout the entire book, not only because of the great prose and the plot, but also because of the different world it opened for me.

The story revolves around a lonely young woman who has encased her heart in cast iron because of her life experiences. Abandoned as an infant and growing up in foster homes and group homes, her childhood experiences of being unloved, unwanted and mistreated scarred her and formed her. Her experiences with one fantastic foster mother provided her with the means to cope, taught her the language of flowers along with the language of love, until an unforgettable night tore them apart.

I learned through this book that each flower has its own meaning, a fact well-known in Victorian times, when young people communicated through the sending of flowers, expressing their sentiments by the choice of flowers they sent to the recipient. Victoria Jones, the main character in the book, has learned the language of flowers through her own studies as well as through the teachings of one foster mother. Throughout her childhood she presented others with flowers, sending messages that with few exceptions, only she could understand. She used flowers to express emotions, including her grief (aloe), mistrust (lavender), and solitude (heath.)

I found myself mesmerized by the story, which shifts back and forth from the present to her childhood experiences, all the while weaving a fantastic tale full of despair, sorrow, and hope. When Victoria would make a bouquet or give someone a flower, I found myself checking the glossary of flower names and meanings listed at the end of the book to determine the meaning in her message.

This excellent book explores mother/daughter relationships, finding one’s way back home even after misbehaving badly, learning to trust again, and the power of love in our lives. As Victoria notes at the end of the book, “If it was true that moss did not have roots, and maternal love could grow spontaneously, as if from nothing, perhaps I had been wrong to believe myself unfit to raise my daughter. Perhaps the unattached, the unwanted, the unloved, could grow to give love as lushly as anyone else.”

I recommend this book highly. It kept my attention throughout, and gave me a glimpse into the world of those who feel themselves unloved and unworthy, and it provides the hope that we all can move forward and find ourselves if we care to take that journey.