The best part of gardening, for me, is the element of surprise. I only started
gardening a few years ago and despite the time I put into it, I am still a novice.
One can check acid levels in the soil and study the movement of the sun but I would rather take my chances to admire what nature does all by herself. The science behind how a flower grows is easy enough to understand, but the brilliance of the colors and the variations in shape remains a blissful mystery.
One year I planted sunflower seeds and the sunflowers grew to about nine feet
tall. This year there are orchids growing all over the place, despite the fact that
orchid season is supposed to end in late May. Since I can’t remember what I
did last week, I certainly don’t remember where I planted bulbs last fall and this
element of surprise brings me pure joy. The hydrangeas change color every
year, dependent on how the soil survived the winter. This year they are bright
pink and pale blue.
Four years ago, a beloved religious education class gave me an apple tree.
The tree is thriving and it is certain to bear fruit next year as they graduate high
school and grow anew at college. Danielle could not be home for Mother’s Day
this year, so she asked her father to buy me a rose bush from her. What she
didn’t know was that we planted a rose bush in her honor when she was born.
Whenever I drive by our first house in NJ, I make sure that it is still there.
Gardening serves many purposes, not the least of which is solitude. I
don’t bring a phone outside and I don’t listen to music. It is just my tools, my
wellington boots and I. It is the only time I welcome dirty hands. The bugs and
I have negotiated an agreement whereas I will leave them alone if they do the
same for me. The bees don’t always read the annual memo, but we are working
on it.
Patience is something that I do not own in buckets, yet I am always patient with
my flowers. Planting a butterfly bush one year and seeing it grow three feet
the next never becomes boring. Then, of course, there are the questionable
flowers, the ones that bloom but are considered weeds. A little girl once told
me that just because we humans have decided something is a weed doesn’t
make it so. Her expression was so earnest, as if she knew how fallible we are
compared to nature. My rule is that a flowering weed with a soft leaf gets to stay.
My grandmother told us for years and years that when she died, she wanted a
blanket of daisies on her casket. This was a woman who started out with the
simplest of roots and grew to have life experiences that one could only dream
about. She could have asked for roses or lilies or some exotic flower but she
identified the most with the daisy, humble and elegant at the same time. Nanny
got her daisies this past February. This year was too soon, but they will
certainly make a debut in my garden next year.