At what point from seed to bloom has a flower reached perfection? I sit outside in a friend’s garden looking at the hydrangea flower blossoms turning dry and lacy. The marigolds still in their full glory. The last of the phlox—two or three lilac-colored blooms high up on stalks with browning leaves. Sedum heads turning burgundy from their earlier deep rose color. And the arms of my grey sweater covered in tan liatris seeds from digging up bulbs to bring back to my garden.

Everywhere I look there is a phase of growth -- from seed to bloom-- contained in this garden. And each one is perfectly itself.

This year I have been especially appreciative of the flowers that seem to be marching to the beat of their own drummer. Flowers that bloom later or earlier than their typical season. The forsythia that bloomed in January, and the azalea that has 4 purple blossoms in the garden right now. The cottage pink that is still bright and blooming.  Maybe it’s because of covid, or maybe its mid-life—but there have been so many conversations lately of where one ‘should’ be by now, or what one ‘should’ have attained. So many wondering —where would I be, or my students be, or my children be if 2020 had been different? if Covid never happened?

So these flowers that have decided to shine on their own timeline–breaking the pattern of their species and their comrades nearby—demonstrate for me that there are so many factors that decide when we get to bloom, when we get to shine. That blooming simply takes the time it takes. That just because the guy next to you is blooming doesn’t mean it’s your time to shine yet.

And sitting in the garden I look around at all of the plants in their various stages – the geraniums, that are still blooming--or the tomatoes and beans that are still setting fruit--or the false indigo that has seed pods hovering where the blossoms were. All around me I see the cycle of things—nothing is left out of the cycle. To be alive is to belong to it. And even to be dying is to belong to it.

But we are gardens and not one singular plant. There are things in my life that have gone to seed and are waiting for the right conditions to grow again, and there are some seeds that I planted over a decade ago that are beginning to burst into bloom. And I can feel, as I breathe in the fall air and listen to the late afternoon noises, that my challenge is to not to forget that life is a constant garden. And not, as it often gets described, as some road to a particular destination.

Time has such a different rhythm when I think of cycles of seeds and fruit and blossoms. It reminds me that right now, as I get frustrated with things not being done, that there are seeds and bulbs waiting out their respective winters and fallow times for the right time to bloom. That it may be a decade before I know or understand something that is beyond my reach right now. It is such a different stance to hold the work of your life as ever-unfolding seed-growth-bloom-seed cycles and not the usual checklist of what have I done—or what do I need to do.

It's a stance that generates curiosity—interest—and wonder. When I take this stance I am so grateful to the self that I was ten or twenty years ago, who worked diligently planting and nurturing seedlings that are now vibrant and healthy. And I am reminded that you never actually know what will grow. That a bloom or a vegetable is always a surprise. It is always something special.  

So I need to be grateful to what is blooming now and be excited about it, to enjoy the fruits of old labor and share the harvest that now exists. But I also need to remember that it’s not the harvest that is the accomplishment, but the gardening.  It’s planting, the tending, the watering that keeps growth and life happening.  It’s the faith, not in the blossoms, but the seeds. Seeds that come from the end of the cycle—not from the bloom, but from what comes afterwards. Faith that steadies you to hold all the parts of the cycle—whether you are sowing seeds, watering the small shoots, or taking the seed pods and shaking them over your fall leaves.

© 2022 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD