And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.

From “A Portable Paradise” by Roger Robinson

Last week I smelled peonies. I told my friend, who walked with me through the garden, about the peony bush outside my Nana’s house. My memory recalls a bush the size of the house with a fragrance like the world’s perfume. I am sure the bush was only that big in my mind’s eye. Peonies were (along with roses) my Nana’s portable paradise.

Peonies are a portable paradise for me, too. When I smell a peony, I am immediately transported to that special place where I remember hanging the moon and stars for Nana. (I hope everyone has at least one person for whom they hang the moon and stars. I am blessed to have/had several, Nana being one.)

Robinson talks about protecting your portable paradise — like a secret covenant with yourself to be wielded with great care. I want to suggest a peony is bigger than all that, for me. It is beauty, persistence, balm, miracle, joy.

A portable paradise is bigger than all that. A portable paradise is comfort. A portable paradise is center. A portable paradise is stillness. A portable paradise is strength. A portable paradise goes with us — as an object, memory, treasure, or feeling — along our path.

I am not sure Nana would have called peonies a portable paradise. She did not use those kind of words. She floated peony blossoms in small crystal dishes around her home. She minded her peony bush with careful attention. She brought sprays of peonies to church on Sundays when they were in season. When they were out of season, she would look at the pictures she had taken of the flowers in had taken while they were in bloom. In all those ways, they were her portable paradise.