You may not recall that line from a Disney song of days gone by, but it sprang from its long-forgotten place this morning when I looked out at my garden to see a couple of velvety blue irises in bloom.
Irises are not remarkable at this time of year, but these had not bloomed in at least 10 years. I had frankly forgotten they were even there. Blooming were some yellow flowers, of the same ilk that had produced a few dazzlers in recent years—but these midnight blues were like the prodigal son, once lovingly nurtured with great expectations, only to disappear and now, without warning, return. It was cause for celebration.
This notion that something could remain off the radar, waiting for just the right conditions to flourish once again, seemed a life lesson begging for notice. How often have we put great effort into something, only to have it seemingly wither away: a business idea, a book written, a marriage, even progeny who chose a path but steered astray. Could they, like my irises, just be waiting for the optimum timing?
With that revelation, I wondered what other lessons were evident in my garden. Two other pretty purples stand ready for notice. Violets, immortalized in the couplet "roses are red," are profuse in my garden and yard, often in unwanted places. The tender little stems holding up their fragile flowers are deceiving. Violets are tenacious and seem immune to attempts to eradicate them. They demand to be noticed and they remind us that strength isn't found only in the big and imposing.
Then there is lamium, otherwise known as spotted dead nettle. A small piece of this ground cover carried home from my brother's yard has found its way into every planting bed. At this time of year, when I ruthlessly clear out unwanted plants, I hesitate with the lamium. It knows it has far exceeded its welcome, but in a clever defense it shoots up colorful blue and even white blooms in the otherwise colorless gardens. I am smitten with their beauty and vow I'll get a handle on this invasive glutton when the blooms fade. I walk away, and swear I can hear the lamium chuckling.
Haven't we all countered our better judgment with too much of a good thing because it was so beautiful, or tasty, or just there?
Names identify but also categorize. We tend to shy away from people with strange-sounding names. That is true in the garden, as well. Wouldn't you choose Veronica over Scabiosa?
Once, on a whim, I filled a small garden only with flowers bearing dubious names like the aforementioned scabiosa, added a little dead nettle, then spiderwort and lungwort for good measure. I couldn't have been more pleasantly surprised. A rose by another name is still a rose.
Coneflowers are native to our area. Great fields of these daisy-like flowers flourish in what seem like inhospitable places. As an inexperienced gardener, I once thought that if they could bloom under harsh conditions, imagine what they would do in my garden with the best of care. I hovered over them, providing everything I assumed they had been missing. The result was not what I expected. Where the native plants stood stalwart under the Kansas sun, mine wilted. By taking the plant out of its natural environment, I had turned a hardy survivor into a wimpy weakling. As a gardener, I found that the best plant in the wrong location won't thrive.
I could carry on with additional points. Some parts of a plant we grow for food can be poisonous (tomato leaves) and others we try to eliminate are actually delicious (dandelion and chickweed)—but you must have come up with some comparisons of your own by this point.
So, to finish Alice's song in wonderland, with a nod to the fact that it's now July:
"You can learn a lot of things from the flowers,
Most especially in the month of June.
There's a wealth of happiness and romance
All in a golden afternoon."
