Jumping to Fly

My thoughts are all over the place this morning regarding this post. First I am wondering about continuing to write it. Next Sunday marks this blog's one year anniversary--a year in the garden with you. What more is there to say? Will I have to keep looking back to the corresponding month from a year ago to see that I have already written about the mulberries staining the driveway, and having to sweep them daily so I can walk to my garden door? Have I written about lessons learned from pulling annuals out of the ground to plant new ones? Wondering if the zinnia seeds are going to come up, or if I have to replant with seedlings? About my boredom with the summer garden? Is one year of my life exactly the same as the last? Should I continue the risk of writing--even metaphorically--about my work self, or do I need to censure myself? Maybe it's time to stop; I just don't know. I would love your feedback. But I still have today's post before the year is complete. 

"If we want to have all our bases covered before we act, nothing exciting will happen. But if we dare to take a few crazy risks, because God asks us to do so, many doors, which we didn’t even know existed, will be open to us." (Unknown) I took a risk a year ago; a risk that I could figure how to do a blog, and that anyone would care. I know now that I could figure it out, and that there are people who care. And it has changed me.

When we jump, we risk falling--in fact, we guarantee falling--but not before we fly. Taking crazy risks doesn't always work out, but it always gets us unstuck; it always takes us to a new place, at least for a time. I took a wild, some would say stupid, risk when I bought my house four years ago. I knew it was beyond my means; but I fell in love. I had potential resources, but I didn't know if I would be able to tap them. And I did it anyway. I let myself hear and feel the persistent voice in the breeze telling me to jump; and it changed my life. We can collect data, organize spreadsheets, graph the results. But in the end, it is our gut that tells us all we need to know. The past two weeks at work (here I go) I have spent hours collecting membership and pledge data for a committee; and yes, graphing the results. I am sure it is important information; but if we don't look at why people join the church, why they leave, why they do or do not pledge, isn't the information a little bit worthless? And do we really need the statistics to know that all of those things are happening? After I took the plunge and signed the mortgage, my mother chose to help me with the gap in financial resources; but before that happened, I had to be okay with the possibility that I would fall. My mother has now given me birth and life twice. Thank you, Mama.

And then there are the annuals. It doesn't look like I wrote about them a year ago; so I will risk repeating myself. I have mixed feelings about annuals. By definition, they don’t have longevity. The enduring seasonal color when it get too hot for the proliferate bloom that is spring, though, makes up for the necessity of replanting every summer and fall. They don’t provide the excitement of discovering emerging plants in the spring, but different varieties can be planted each year, keeping the garden new and fresh. I plant annual seeds, then forget what I have planted and where; and never know which seeds have been transplanted by birds scratching for worms, or eaten, or just failed to germinate and not come up at all. The excitement of watching the seeds transfigure to sunflowers, cosmos, and zinnias sustains me after the perennials have finished their emergence.

At times my history of relationship feels more like an annual than a perennial. I am assured by dear friends, however, that 15 year partnerships do not define me as a flitter. I know I have an affinity, though, for the early years when two people are exploring and discovering each other and themselves in relationship; and then when the awkwardness and constant need for watering has passed, but each year is bigger and more full of flowers. It’s when two people grow so close together they lose their individual identities and with it their ability to bloom, that I get spooked. When they become so comfortable that they don’t even notice what is happening, and forget the need to constantly prune and reshape to keep the relationship thriving. Like learning from what doesn't work in the garden, perhaps the knowing and paying attention is the key; and that I can try again and trust it will make the difference.

A hard thing about annuals is that the gardener has to pull the previous season's bloom to plant those for the coming season. Space must be created for whatever is more likely to thrive in the coming months and years. The last couple of seasons, I have pulled the old annuals in stages and planted between what's left. Yesterday I pull the second round of pansies. I had already planted marigolds, now I plant vinca and batchelor's buttons. I hate to pull the leggy, but still colorful pansies; but when I do I discover beauty it the space it creates.

I also transplant some summer phlox and iris that are crowded. I don't really like iris, and I would have been just as happy to throw them out, but I have a large empty space that calls for something to be planted; so I move both to the new spot. The phlox immediately wilted, but after a couple of waterings, they have taken to their new home. The iris are still prostrate. They may not perk up until next season. It's probably not the time to transplant them, but it was time to remove them from their old home. I think of my two dear friends who are moving at the end of the month--and not down the road. Really moving; putting several states between them and me, and each other. And I think of my friend and co-worker whose eleven year tenure at our workplace is being celebrated today as she gets ready to jump into a different life. My friends, I tell you this: you will be like the summer phlox and the iris. It will take time to reestablish your roots. A short time or a season. But you are following your gut, taking a risk, jumping. Jump high, spread your wings, and fly, fly, fly.

Summer is around the corner; the time I feel disconnected from the garden. I become tired of watering, tired of weeding, tired of dead-heading, tired of trying to keep things alive through drought and heat. Nothing new is happening. If the garden lives, great. If it dies, ‘cest le vie. I prefer creating to maintaining. But now it is the middle of May; the sundrops by the front steps are bursting into bloom, the passion flower did bloom this year, the violets did not (thanks to the munching four-legged thief), all five hydrangeas are full of the green-yellow of beginning bloom and are shyly showing a few blue or purple petals. The weeping Japanese maple tree that replaced the rhododendron that failed to thrive is thick and luscious. New in the garden this year are the red poppies I sewed in the fall from seeds Robin gave me. I love how the blossom struggles out of the hull, like a bird out of an egg. Pieces of the covering that protected it still clinging to the petals. And then how the spent bloom transforms again into a seed pod for next year's bloom. To be constantly transforming ourselves and our relationships is a natural progression.

I take a step back from my cynicism and look into the months ahead. Maybe this will be the summer that I take care of my relationship with the garden through the hard days; the days when I want to just give up and let it fend for itself. Maybe this will be the summer that the rain and temperatures meet me halfway. But I have no control over that. Maybe, one day, I’ll have another opportunity to grow within a relationship. Perhaps I will have a partner who will meet me halfway through the hard times. Maybe I will learn to always be watching for what is new, rather than assuming stagnation. Maybe I will be more intentional about maintaining. Maybe I will sit back and enjoy what I have created, rather than wanting to create something new all the time. Maybe I will jump.

This week (Wednesday) is my meniscus tear surgery. I have never had surgery before. I don't know what to expect. Yes, I am familiar with the data, but in reality, what it will be like for me is still a mystery. (As I write this, I look up and see the orthopedist doing my surgery in the Cafe. I have never seen him here before. What does it mean? That he and his family are hungry, I guess. Or is it reassurance?) I do know I will have five days without work, either at my workplace or in the garden. I will have time to read. I would love to hear about times you have jumped, taken a crazy risk, and what happened. I hope you will leave a comment on this post, send me an email (gigi.pnw@gmail.com), or leave a message on Facebook. I would love to know who you are, who my readers are. Thank you for reading this blog and joining me in the garden for at least some part of the past twelve months. You mean everything to me.