I can’t plant certain things here. Connecticut winters are too harsh for the lavender and rosemary and gardenias that I had in my Seattle garden. I have had to learn a new lexicon of plants, and to appreciate a different sort of beauty. My landscaper’s words echoed those of my therapist. The roses are familiar at least, hardy survivors of extreme heat and cold, and yet capable of producing perfect blooms. There is something comforting in that. I have felt like a rose, stripped bare in winter, as if several feet of snow were piled on me, cold, heavy weight pressing down, forcing me to conserve my energy, retreat into my roots, and now suddenly the sun is beating down, the air thick with heat and humidity, and I’m thirsty, reaching toward the light. The summer has forced my growth, sudden and painful. When I see my children, beautiful blooms I created in a different climate, I realize they have become hybrids here, like new varieties of tea roses. I’m grateful for the exposure that gave them their colors, and the thorns they have grown for protection.
Like any relationship, change is required to accommodate the growth of plants in a garden. And although I’m bone tired from change, I can see weeds shooting up already under new mulch in the beds that need to be pulled, and flowers finished blooming need to be dead-headed. Shrubs have doubled in size since they went in the ground two months ago, and will need to be rearranged. Just like my daughter’s closet when she went away to school, just like my heart, my life. The dogs sit outside with me and sniff the wind. There are hundred year old trees in the yard that ooze the wisdom of the ancient when I listen carefully. They have seen other children play in this garden, other dogs chase rabbits and deer across this lawn, other husbands and wives fight or kiss in the gloaming. Silent witnesses to life and death, and life again.
I have no choice but to adapt to my new climate. If I want to have a garden.
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