Spring and early summer always bring me gifts of anticipation and surprise. This year, I’ve also been aware of how my acceptance of what I can’t change sweetens my experiences.
Last year around this time, a lilac bush I’d rescued from a garbage pile bloomed for the first time since I’d replanted it about a decade ago. (See here for last year’s blog post about it.) The blooms faded, as they do, and I wondered if they would appear again this spring.
One of my challenges each winter is protecting my trees and bushes from the rabbit which like to chew the bark when they can no longer access plants and grasses. Certain of my shrubs get swathed in burlap, and tree trunks get wrapped in sections of weeping tile for protection. Typically, I don’t have to worry about my lilac bushes. Rarely do they get chewed, and then only in a minor way.
But not this past winter.
Of the five lilac bushes in my back yard, one got chewed significantly. Yes. My rescue lilac. By the time we discovered the damage, it was too late to protect it. All I could do was hope for the best … and practice accepting that perhaps last year’s miraculous blooming might have been my “rescue” lilac’s last gift to me.
Once the snow melted down to ground level, I hurried out to assess the damage. It was far more extensive than I’d hoped. Almost every branch had been chewed, breaking the continuity of the bark entirely around. Typically, this causes the branch to die.
As leaf buds appeared, I monitored the lilac closely, pruning off the branches that had no buds so the bush’s energy could go into the healthy branches.
Then one day, to my great delight, I noticed some flower buds. They weren’t as abundant as last year, but they’re still there! I’ve also noticed some new suckers sprouting beside the main bush, which is another sign of continuing life in this beloved planting.
I will continue to protect this beloved friend as best I know how, while holding the knowledge that each year’s blooms are gifts, not guarantees.
Another plant which I love in my gardens are morning glories. One summer, I planted them along a fence line, and delighted in the big purple blooms. I made note of the variety that produces that particular colour of bloom (Grandpa Ott), and planted more the next year. That’s when I noticed that the previous year’s crop had self-seeded, which meant more plants than I had space for—a truly glorious problem.
For the next couple of years, I didn’t buy any new plants, and enjoyed the plants that grew on their own. However, each spring, the sprouts were fewer. The spring I decided to buy morning glory plants again, I only found a couple of the more traditional colours. The next year, I didn’t find any.
This year, I made a point of visiting the greenhouses early in the season. I didn’t see morning glories for sale, so I asked a staff member, who let me know their shipment had just come in. She assured me if I was willing to wait about 20 minutes, she could bring me what I needed, and asked how many I wanted.
“It depends on how many pink or purple ones you have,” I responded.
She was able to bring me four plants, which turned out to be much larger than I’d anticipated. They were also varieties I hadn’t noticed before, and felt some delight at seeing something new in my garden. As soon we had warm enough weather, I carefully planted my new friends along the fence.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten to check the forecast a couple of days ahead. Temperatures dipped past freezing. We protected the plants as best we could, but the once gorgeous, long vines had frost damage almost back to ground level.
Based on my past experiences with buying morning glory plants, I hurried back to the greenhouse. I didn’t see what I wanted, and almost left in disappointment. However, I felt an inner nudge to ask a staff member. Once again, there were plants in the back being prepared for the main area. He asked how many plants I wanted. I responded, “If you have pink or purple, I’ll take six.”
It took some time, but eventually, he reappeared with several plants in a tray. “All I could find for pink or purple is Granda Ott variety. Is that okay?”
I felt my eyes well up with happy tears. I’d had absolutely no expectation of my favourite variety being available. I thanked him profusely, and brought the plants home.
They’ve now been in my flowerbed for almost a month, and yesterday I discovered that the wild rabbits seem particularly fond of them, so I have yet another opportunity to be with what is, rather than what I’d prefer.
That is one of the many gifts my garden offers—not just the beauty of the flowers, but also the opportunities to tend my soul along with my plants. As I dig in the dirt, pulling weeds and planting annuals, I feel the support of the Earth in my own inner work of tending my reactions and meeting my emotions with care. I can’t control what experiences come my way, but I can continue to grow more skilful in caring for myself in every circumstance. That is the fertile soul in which my soul grows.
