I'm new to this gardening thing.
First time we've had space to envision and plant and go for it.
A few years ago I was excited to have an "apartment balcony garden" growing lettuce and peppers and tomatoes. That lasted a whole 3 days before we were notified the apartment complex was replacing all of the balconies and they would be not be accessible for the entire summer. Neat.
So last spring I skipped into Home Depot and picked out all the pretty colors (okay, apparently I only saw pink) without an ounce of an idea what I was doing.
I didn't know what this summer would bring and I certainly didn't know the lessons in the garden that would so strikingly fit these crazy last few months. So as they continue to unfold I want to remember them. Through the gracious, growing plants, God is teaching me a bit about this roller coaster.
The beginning.
I loved these bright pink exotic (to me) blooms!
The excitement of a fuschia! And the tried and true geranium.
And this pink explosion couldn't be passed up. I inherited the green plant thingy (that's its official name, I promise). And aren't those little impatients so cute?
I also grabbed some snap-dragons which have always been a favorite.
And of course a hydrangea starter because hydrangeas have captured by heart. They sing out JOY! and they are one of my favorites.
The verdict?
The whole pretty pink corner with my exotic choices died a sad, brown death.
Over-watering? Too much sun? Not enough?
Probably a bit of neglect as I planted and then proceeded into what was (still is) one of the most stressful, busy, overwhelming summers yet. Watering plants? I have plants?
Watering myself? Who has time for that?!
Apparently if you don't make time, you wither and brown and all the exotic pinkness of life gets hidden.
And then, sometimes, you want to cling to the exotic pinkness and God has tugged gently and said "let that go..."
There's still a sadness to see the large pot full of dirt, now empty.
The other side of the garden?
BURSTING at the seams.
The pink thing is a bit cumbersome, but all of a sudden it started growing UP. This succulent type leafage reaching for the sky.
Unexpected.
The cute little impatients? They had big dreams and grew!
Spread their petals and you can hardly tell they are in pots.
Exponential growth.
And snap-dragons?
Also grew UP and OUT and I needed a bigger pot...
Underestimated.
Also, fuschias? Those are hanging plants.
Once it was in its element that thing thrived and bloomed.
Sometimes you just find that you're in the wrong spot.
Same dream, same effort - different spot and all of a sudden there's fruit to your growing.
But you have to listen and be willing to go to that new spot.
(Notice the brown withering plant down on the left? I tried to bring it to this side to see if it would be encouraged by all the growth over here... it did eventually come back and bloom. But lost its battle after a few days of heavy rain. Sigh.)
I also inherited some rose bushes (which I've never tended before).
I was excited about this pink one as I didn't do much of anything and it bloomed the most.
The ones along the back are tall and lanky and produced a few roses.
And some tall, sporadic green blades of thick grass sprouted at the roots of the lanky rose bushes.
It looked a bit odd, but I just felt that they were something other than grass blades gone wild.
We received a notice from our HOA that referenced the back as "ugly" (!). And needed to be fixed right away. (How's that for a confidence boost?)
But I was stubborn and left these blades growing until mid-July.
I looked out and these wild orange blooms appeared.
Don't be so quick to judge.
As usual, patience and waiting are needed.
I have no patience nor any desire to wait.
But that doesn't matter, because whether I have patience or not these unfolded when they were ready. And I love them.
A surprise gift planted by the previous owners.
Change.
It will always be inevitable, but I think it will always be a shock to my system.
I try, I prepare, I work at it - but I am just not one that takes change lightly.
It throws me sideways and I emerge half-drowned and gasping.
But I emerge.
The HOA note mentioned that the back was going to be reclaimed by the HOA
(at this point, being so overwhelmed, sounds good to me!)
And the beautiful pink rosebush?
That has to go...it's in the way.
Change.
Means hard work.
It means being dug up and shook out like a rag doll and plopped in brand new, cold soil.
With the encouragement: THRIVE!
I was thriving where I was, thank you very much.
But the funny thing?
I really wasn't.
God knows more about where and how I thrive best.
And sometimes that means being completely uprooted, as shocking as that is.
And the empty pots?
New opportunities arise.
Try again.
And when you go outside and find the most pathetic sight of wilted, browning stems and leaves draping over the side of the pot and you desperately drown it in water a miracle happens.
Overnight it found nourishment and strength to rise and grow again.
But not with out some battle scars - some burned edges won't go away.
But it doesn't stop new growth.
You're more resiliant than you think.
And when you think you've hit the bottom.
You haven't.
You need some nourishment. Seek it.
There are lots of "bottoms" out there.
In fact I think they are just temporary ledges before free-falling again.
But there is still hope.
Always hope.
In the ugly-beautiful.
All is grace.
And the giant, green unidentified plant lending us a bit of privacy?
It's a hydrangea.
The first blooms are just peeking out.
My heart is full.
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