In the heart of winter, we pause by the window and press hands to cold, frost-tinged glass. Beyond the casement, there is a blanket of snow-covered earth, the garden stilled and silver-plated, barren trees swaying in synchrony with bluster-wind. It is a world transformed by intricacies of crystal design—beautiful, but somehow aloof, unfamiliar, uncertain. We turn to examine small cache pots and rustic baskets of African violets on the windowsill—velvet green leaves and sprays of congenial, cheerful flowers in shades of lapis lazuli, cerulean, ultramarine, periwinkle—splashes of blithe, expressive blooms thriving in wan January light.
Our grandmothers knew how to propagate violets from pinched leaf stalks, how to water with care, how to tend with benign abandon. They knew, and they shared these things with us. They also shared—by example more than word, and now by recollection—ways of moving through moments of change, difficult days, and challenging times. In the heart of winter, we remember our grandmothers, how they grew African violets on long-ago and far-away windowsills, and how nostalgic blooms and memory confer gifts of constancy, simplicity, and equanimity across the changing seasons. —B.
African Violet—
our grandmothers grew violets
and knew
the world
beyond a frosted windowpane
may falter, meet sorrow
and confusion
of sky—
and yet
through the longest winters,
how blooms upon the sill
may comfort us
with hues
of constancy, simplicity,
and joy.
—B.
And there are times in the heart of winter when we move away from the window and pass through the door, into cold, still air—into the gloaming. The moment poises between light and long shadow, between illumination of day and darkness of night. The sky is a violet cloak veined with dark, brittle boughs—branches yearning skyward in seeming supplication, sometimes holding offerings of fresh snow. How to describe a winter sunset: is it dusky azure... mauve half-light... lavender evensong? Or is it the color of solitude, a moment tinged with melancholy, brushed with sorrow—a sense that everything bright and good is fragile and fleeting, that time is traveling at the pace of refracted light—vapor scattering, then vanishing, on an always-receding horizon?
The naming of a winter sunset heightens our awareness, matches our mood. Beyond melancholy, past the cast of solitude and the tincture of sorrow, there is a deepening sense of peace and belonging saturating the January hour—an invitation to pause, to breathe, a chance to embrace, at once, impermanence and all that endures. Perhaps then, the color of a winter sunset is hushed violet—an invocation for safe passage, for quietude of spirit, through the darkest of nights. —B.
Winter Sunset—
the hush,
the space between
daylight and deep shadow,
with twining barren branches pressed
to sky—
each thing, all things ever-changing,
and yet—
a cloak
of scattered light and vapor drapes
the violet hour,
in evensong,
the vow
of quietude and safe passage
through night.
—B.
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| Winter Sunset in Chatham, January 2018. |
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| African Violets on D's Windowsill. |
The name African violet commonly refers to about ten species in the section Saintpaulia of the genus Streptocarpus, native to Tanzania and Kenya—and not related to true violet flowers at all. In the late 1800’s, German and British colonists transplanted the flower from Africa to Europe where it soon became a popular indoor plant. African violets are willing to produce their delicate flowers all year long, providing they are kept at relatively stable temperature and are left largely alone. They should be watered infrequently and carefully—they especially don’t like to have cold water splashed on their leaves. Many a brown-thumbed plant enthusiast can find success with an African violet--the plants thrive with little maintenance when put in a sunny windowsill, making them an excellent gift flower.
The shades of the African violet’s bloom could fill a thesaurus, from aubergine to lavender, mauve, orchid, and magenta. For those who nurture them, African violet flowers bring a hopeful message of constancy in all seasons of the year. Through the spring rain, the summer drought, the fall frost, and the howling winter wind, the little houseplants provide a sense of stability--and a reminder of beauty—with every bloom. —D.
Violet is a color of transition and imagination. Sitting between serene blue and enthusiastic red on the color wheel, it brings aspects of both energies to the table. Violet has the shortest wavelength and the highest frequency on the visible color spectrum, and many cultures associate it with supreme levels of spirituality, dignity, and royalty. In literature, the violet hour is a moment of splendor during a transition—the time between day and night when the sky might show itself in glorious shades of purple.
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| The Violet Hour in Gettysburg, January 2025. |
When we are facing a period of rapid change in our lives, we can remember the steadiness, stability, and majesty of the African violet. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and imagine a violet light shining on you. Maybe you are basking in the glow of a magnificent violet hour in a natural setting. Or maybe you are sitting quietly below a violet stained-glass window as the sun’s light beams down. Feel the violet light move through you—the cool of the blue balanced with the warmth of the red. Take several deep breaths and soak in the violet energy. Think about the things in your life that ground you, keep you steady, fill you with hope when everything around you seems to be changing. Throughout the day, look for shades of violet in your surroundings. Name the shade and pause to notice how it makes you feel. —D.
This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.
—Bernard DeVoto, 1897-1955, author, conservationist, historian
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| The Violet Hour at Loantaka Brook Reservation, February 2011. |