Transplanting the Foxglove

The foxglove, which remains above ground through the winter, resurrected this spring into a robust doubled-in-size specimen of good health. As did the weeping Japanese maple I planted behind it the spring after I put the foxglove in the ground. It is no longer a good home for the foxglove. There won't be room for the stalk. So last Sunday I move it to an empty space across the flagstone path. I also transplant one of the many ostrich fern babies--one that popped up under the now-enormous Autumn Brilliance fern. And then there is the heart-leaf bergenia. Another above ground winterer in my garden. It has not bloomed since I planted it, but this spring it has birthed a new plant. I keep thinking maybe this year it will bloom. I don't know what to do with it; so I let it be.

Monday morning the foxglove sprawls limply on the ground, its leaves like lettuce that stayed in the refrigerator drawer for too many weeks. I've killed it, I think, and it was so beautiful. The hole wasn't deep enough or wide enough; the dirt too hard; I didn't add enough compost. I didn't take enough time to prepare the soil to receive it. I must have done something wrong. I am sad. The fern, on the other hand, looks like it has come fresh from the beauty parlor; not a hair out of place. Tuesday, Wednesday: limp foxglove, unfazed fern. But then, slowly slowly, the foxglove starts to perk up. I keep watering it and talking to it. Encouraging it to come back in its own time. Being patient with it. And it does. Today, except for a few leaves on the bottom, it is itself again. Hopefully a happier, healthier self, with room to stretch. But I will have to wait some more to know that.

I have been reading the blog of one of last summer's writing camp classmates. Her husband is undergoing a stem cell transplant. The ultimate transplant. With a stem cell transplant the body has to come as close as physically possible to death; then, at the last moment--the exact right time--the new cells are introduced. And then the really hard part starts. Waiting and hoping and praying. Watching her husband wilt down until he is unrecognizable. Then waiting some more to see if the cells will take over his body and learn their new home and find nourishment and bring him to new life.

The fern, the bergenia, the foxglove. Some people move around in their lives with ease, seemingly oblivious to change; knowing how to seek out the nourishment they need to thrive, never missing a beat. Others stay put because the foliage is healthy; and try not to be concerned that there is no bloom. Still others, recognizing an inability to grow and bloom where they are, cautiously take the leap, but transition slowly, finding it difficult to let go of what was and bloom into what is now and next. We leave the place we have filled up, and move on to empty space that is waiting for new life to inhabit it. It takes us longer to find our way and stretch our roots deep into the soil. We are patient with ourselves...or try to be.

Yesterday, between rain showers, I plant zinnia and sunflower seeds. In this instant society, I love planting seeds. I push them out of sight and spread the soil back over them. Deferred gratification. In a few days they will sprout, and then will come the challenge of distinguishing them from weeds. It's a good excuse not to pull weeds until I can be sure what I am pulling.

The garden is in its spring prime. The weekend rain, which follows a long dry spell, will revive the flagging pansies. The second round of snapdragons--the tall ones I didn't know I planted--have exploded open. I pick the first snap peas and a few leaves of spinach for my weekly garden pasta. Exciting! My first attempt at both. The roses are beautiful, but for one bush that has no buds. The first purple heart bloom delights me and the last bleeding hearts bid adieu to early spring. Pincushion flower, yarrow, and candytuft add their bling in the sun garden. And mid-week, here is the too-crazy-to-not-believe-in-God passion flower.

My mother and sisters visited last weekend (hence no blog post). We are a family of transplants. My mother left her childhood Tennessee for Washington (with my mid-west father). My sisters and I left the west coast and transplanted ourselves on the east coast. My younger sister and my daughter have left the right and replanted themselves on the left again. My son left the North Carolina Piedmont in favor of the mountains. We are a family of curiosity. What if... Perhaps curiosity is the forerunner of change. I wondered if the foxglove would be happier in a new space, if its roots would find the nourishment it needed to reconnect with the earth in its new home. The only way to know is to give it the chance. Perhaps it will be too traumatized to bloom this year. But I am betting that in the long run, it will thrive.