Category — you reap what you sow

A few months ago, I took my trowel out in the yard and dug up a patch of sweet violets. I planted them in a glass candy dish lined with river rocks. Just to see what would happen.

They’re hanging in there, even sprouting a new leaf or two every so often. The house is far too dark to coax blooms out of much anything, save a Christmas cactus and my grandma’s African violet. Still, I am amazed that the magic didn’t run out when I stole them from the ground. I water them a few times a week, and every time, I rotate the dish roughly ninety degrees to keep the growth even.

Plants turn towards the light. This phenomenon is called tropism, from the Greek trope; to turn. It actually occurs on a cellular level; growth hormone floods the dark cells of the plant and elongates them. The shaded side of the plant grows faster and pulls the stems and leaves towards the light.

At the very base of its existence, the plant understands that it is fueled by the sun. It seeks that nourishment shamelessly and instinctively, stretching and turning towards a better life and a better view.

Which is why I find it startlingly amusing that we are considered the intelligent life form.

Even the most shade-tolerant people need light to live and grow, but we take the gift of free will and use it to wire our branches into the darkness. The human brain hates an unsolved puzzle; we stare at the ceiling in the pre-dawn twilight and work emotional rubix cubes, twisting and shifting and thinking, hating the damn thing but unable to throw it out or give it away. We writhe and stir with regret, doubt, shame, hurt and confusion.

For some it is a dangerous cycle of destruction- they began to seek darkness and shun light. So shamed by a lack of blooms that they forsake the one thing that would correct the fault.

The rest of us just forget to let our shadows fall behind us and unfurl our leaves in the sunshine. We need a periodic reminder to commit our time, energy and effort to the people, experiences and places that bring us joy, inspiration and contentment.

Consider this yours.

Turn towards the light.

Last fall, I asked Daddy to cut the huge juniper bushes that flanked the front stoop. They were big ugly things that attracted all sorts of unsavory visitors, and the relief that rushed through me as I eyed the stumps was more forceful than I expected it would be. Visions of neat and tidy flowerbeds brimming with lush greenery and gorgeous blooms danced in my head all winter, and the anticipation was delicious torture.

When spring came back around, I planted calla lilies, lily of the valley and some of Brit’s gladiolas around the stumps, almost not believing they would come up for me. Instead, I concentrated on my vision for all of the front beds and made a list of things to transplant, move and buy. Until another plant in my garden failed to thrive, and that death brought the sharp edges and raw spots, and I found myself swallowed by a relentless emotional rip current. All the will and strength within me was expended merely surviving the pain and trauma of being continually slammed into rocks wedged just under the water’s surface.

Coming home from Vegas to find the broad, speckled leaves of those calla bulbs unfurling was at once both shocking and reassuring. My squeals of delight and peals of laughter were as much a reaction to my experience at BiSC as the appearance of these bulbs I spent two months doubting.

Of course they’re coming up! Because everything is magical! Because I am magical! Because life is magical! Why does it take a weekend in Vegas with my incredible biscuits to remind me: all the things! They are magical! How silly I was to be sad and small and doubt the magic!

Indeed, my front beds are teeming with life, lush and green, a palatable current of energy creeping up around my foundation. Now that the high of magic! has receded just a little, I’m craving some order. There are tall things in front and bare spots in the back. My flag iris need to be divided. There’s a hosta in the middle of them, vying for its share of the afternoon sunlight. The bed in front of the laundry room is a schizophrenic tangle of wild strawberry, dill and what appears to be oregano- ghosts of an herb garden attempt some years ago.

Before I can fetch my gloves and trowel, the inertia of hesitation overcomes me.

The schizophrenic herb bed is also home to a pretty blue native Asiatic dayflower that only blooms for a single day, usually in mid-June. If I clear out the wild strawberry and out of control dill, I risk losing that wildflower. My English ivy crawls up the porch and through the windows into the basement; it really belongs out on the hill in the backyard where it can run unfettered, but it has entwined with a wild rose that I would surely mourn for years. The lily of the valley are still just seedlings, and while I know there are some clover and dandelions hiding among them, I fear pulling the wrong thing or disturbing still-fragile root systems. The bulbs in the right bed need to be divided and moved from the front edge to the back edge, but my native pitcher plants are buried in the center of the clump, and somewhere towards the back, a tigerlily stem with four tight green buds soars above the iris leaves.

My flower beds have become a philosophical dilemma. I can take complete control of what grows there, unmercifully putting plants into their respective places, ruthlessly pulling up anything that looks like it might be undesirable. It would take all of an afternoon, and I might lose some native wildflowers, or even the lily of the valley I so mindfully planted there, but there would be order, depth, design. Plants, much like people, are replaceable.

I could just as easily learn to love the chaos and leave the magic undisturbed to see if I’m fond of what blossoms. That would require me to surrender, to loosen my hyper-vigilance over what unpleasant surprises might spring up mid-summer. Retiring my vision for that patch of land and being satisfied with what grows and dies there.

How long can I wait before my inertia becomes my decision?