But then there are the other kinds of surprises. The curious surprises like the Siebolda Elegans hasta that one year comes up chartreuse with different shaped leaves, or the rosebush that changes from lavender to a wine-red bloom. The lilac tree that slowly stops producing violet flowers and then only gives white bunches.
I've had tiny little hostas that are growing in the crack of a brick sidewalk ten feet from any other hosta. Those buggars must really catapult those seeds!
A precious surprise was the tiny Japanese maple that suddenly popped up in the middle of my shade garden in an absolutely perfect location. Being ever thankful for free bounty, and since it was exactly the color scheme I had planted originally anyway (purple and black), I let it grow and now 2 years later it is 3 feet tall!
The trees or plants that you think are at death's door which suddenly spring back into life. The tiny violets that spread everywhere giving a carpet of green and violet and white everywhere. The free gifts from a neighbor and, with the aid of the bird population, other gifts of plants and trees.
Then there is that annual surprise. The one that I always know will come, but which never fails to spring upon me with all the suddenness of Dorothy opening the door of her relocated Kansas farmhouse onto a bounty of beauty and color.
Which is exactly what happened yesterday morning, May 2nd.
Our spring in the Northeast has been terribly dry. The usual procession of plants and trees was laboring to get a toehold, but with the weather so arid, things were a bit slow. The tree leaves had budded - barely - and there was a bit of growth on the other plants. My violets were sticking their leaves out and there were small clumps of lemon balm scattered about. Daylilies had a few leaves above-ground and the hosta stalks, ferns, coral bells, lilies of the valley and bleeding hearts had all come up but were by no stretch of the imagination big, beautiful or thriving.
Then came 2 days of rain. Thursday there were just a few sprinkles during the day and overnight. Friday there was steady rain and a few downpours that lasted all day long. I arrived home after dark and, exhausted from the usual nightmarish commute, I just headed to bed, absent the energy to notice what might have transpired during Mother Nature's workday. Saturday dawned a bit grey, but the rain that had been predicted had not materialized so I figured it was the perfect opportunity to check things out.
Imagine my utter delight when I came downstairs, opened my front door and was greeted with - a green explosion of life.
Everything had, within the course of twenty-four hours, made a light year's worth of progress and had grown in giddy leaps and bounds. The maples, sycamore and birches were all green. My butterfly bushes' branches were thick with growth and the lovely bright green cork bush was quite, well, bushy! Every patch was solid green now as the hostas had unfurled and the violets multipled, the daylilies were now in full shape and the lemon balm was everywhere in big, gorgeous mountains. The dogwoods' little nubbins of white were great boughs of flowers now, and the euphorbia that had been struggling along bravely after a long, icy winter shot up and spread out and weren a lush, waving sea of shades of green.
I lamented that, despite the dire, rainy forecast for the day, it was breezy and the sun promised to make an appearance. But I had commitments and so, leaving my green Eden behind, I trudged off to Manhattan. Last night I got home after another long Saturday, doing writerly things and hanging out with friends, and it was already past dark. Past the time where I could wander around and explore my newly bounteous property.
But I changed into comfy clothes (I don't know a serious gardener who prefers the discomfort of fancy clothes to the loose and casual comfort of the lazy work clothes, my clothes of choice being sweats and a sweatshirt - as it was still a bit chill on last night's Early May night). It was a perfect temperature for sitting outside to do a bit of reading beneath the front light. I settled into my chair, and though the green had turned into that distinctive gray/black of the night, I could still tell that my Spring surprise had sprung. Sitting in my chair, I felt surrounded. In the best possible way.
Within the tiny circle of light beneath the front bulb, I was surrounded by nature. My trees enveloped me, the scent of newly sprung plants in a moist earth snuggled around me. The branches overhead now allowed only a peek of the starry night sky where, just a week ago, bare limbs barely registered. It was as if a protective canopy had been provided making me feel safe, and ensconced in a magical world, all alone, quiet, and serene as only a big tree can make you feel.
By my feet the clumps of greenness, augmented by my newly liberated houseplants, mounded. And everywhere was the silence of life. I sat for a long while, distracted from my reading, by the power I was experiencing. By the surprise that
never ceases to amaze me.Green, beautiful life.
