All is Well

All is well is the message from the lilac bush on the hill. Gia bought it for me three years ago for Mother’s Day.  My butterfly bush had bit the soil after a glorious summer of simultaneous blooms and butterflies, as well as the occasional frenzied hummingbird. I have lucious photographs to prove it.  The whole bulk of stem just cracked apart and died.  Gia couldn’t find a butterfly bush so the lilac seemed to her to be a suitable replacement.  The lilac bush on the hill has yet to bloom. The small green leaves are vibrant and the branches have branched out as branches do.  Gia bought a second lilac bush last year which is situated in a front yard flower bed. It has yet to bloom as well.  

When I was a child in Brooklyn, my parents would cut the lilacs for me to bring to my teachers. The teachers were overjoyed each year.  The lilacs didn't last long. Their beauty was fleeting.  One day, when I was older,  I dipped a lilac into hot wax.  The wax preserved the lilac for a time, color and all. I don't remember where I got the wax or the idea. It was a long time ago.  We didn’t Google back then.  I just knew I needed to save it from its short lived yet sublime stint. 

We were a family of four kids. Did each one of us bring our lucky teachers the lilacs? Or was it my older sister starting the tradition and me helplessly compelled to emulate her and follow suit?

I am waiting on this breezy Spring day. I am waiting for buds. I am waiting for color. I am waiting for fragrance.  I am waiting for the lilacs. Keep waiting, they tell me. Keep hoping. Keep loving. All is well.  So while I’m waiting, what should I do? 

Over here! Over here! At first, we look like buried asparagus spears, don’t we? Soon we will expand and flourish and even flower. 

One day a friend told me how much she disliked Hostas.  I actually felt offended. I laugh now at how I wanted to defend the Hostas. Some gardens didn’t have the space for the  lush green volume.  Our hilly landscapes did. The local meandering deer never found a fondness for my property’s all you can eat hosta buffet but other neighbors were close to tears after the deer had their full. 

Soon the Blue Angels will create gentle silent guidance along grassy pathways. At dusk, August Moon will glisten. At sunset, Vulcans will glow.  Make note of our differences, they beckon. Watch us and know that All is well.

The Forsythia flower fountains are luminous. They cascade and sway. When Li was little, he asked why they were called Forsythia because there were more than four flowers.  He was always math minded even as a little child.  Some neighbors cut the branches before they bloom. In a vase, adorning the dining room table, they watch as the yellow blooms appear. I forget to do this year after year.  Nevertheless, as I look out of any window, I see them bordering, sheltering, turning my garden into a secret hidden oasis.  My mom used to visit years ago and it bugged her to see neighboring land with forsythia cut into geometric formed hedges. It irked her and she would look away in disgust.

While you wait, watch us, they say. Sit nearby and bask. It's time to bask. Bask? Yes. Do I bask? Have I basked? Am I prone to basking? Bask as you lie exposed to warmth and light, typically from the sun, for relaxation and pleasure said Google on behalf of the Oxford Language Dictionary.  Bask is their refrain as the tiny yellow buds fall to drift or scurry away with the wind and the whisper that All is Well.

Salix discolor. Where do I begin? The fuzzy buds were soft like kitten fur.  I refuse to use the common name.  The teachers went crazy over them when we brought them in.  I wondered where they went over time. Dad said they all came down with a disease and it wiped them out. I missed watching them grow outside my bedroom window.   When I see them in the supermarket flower section, I grab them. But it’s not the same. The ritual, the custom is lost. 

Tomorrow, I will venture on a fern finding mission. They can’t hide for much longer. Spring has been springing for a little over a month despite the chilly mornings. As God is my witness, I will find them to wish them well. To acknowledge their steadfastness. To express my deepest gratitude. And they will answer my burning questions with a simple refrain. All is well.

I don’t know how they know. I certainly don't. I have time to question it all but no time to formulate any answers. I am drowning in the mysterious murky sea of my mind. I am hurting with pain that cannot be pinpointed. I am sad about the existence of my sadness. I am leery of my lurking limitations. I am submerged in the tiny round fishbowl of my finiteness. 

The gardens love me. They know I will one day just stop. They will live on perhaps without a hand to hold for a time and without my pestering questions. Overgrown, untended and wild, they will house lives and sustain them. All is well they will tell the next tiller.  All is well they will say muffled under the clanking noise of man made earth shaping machines.  The comforting lilt of this message will whisper through many springs finding the next meandering soul in need of comfort. 

Take up your spade and dig. All is well. Li one day said that if you move the rock, the rock will move. Profound in sound. Mysterious in meaning. Bring your rake and your questions. Bring your pain and your angst. Learn to wait.  Learn to bask.  All is well.