A couple weeks ago, Sharon and I concluded our ongoing debate about what to plant along the wall next to the entry to our yard. During our weekly trip to Lowes (We're cool like that. Get over it.), I caught a whiff of a scent I'd forgotten. Chasing some far off childhood memory, I ended up in front of a stand of jasmine in bloom. Truth be told, if asked to name the scent, I would never been able to place it. But standing in front of those 5 gallon containers, it all came rushing back to me...pink and white flowered bushes sprawling over fences. Perfume hanging heavy in the hot desert air.
Hello, jasmine. Haven't we met?
I shared a private moment with them. Funny, I'm sure they were there for many of the bad times in my childhood, but none of those came to me. Instead, they were the backdrop to a thousand summer bike rides; a screen behind which to hide from seekers, or to steal a kiss. Jasmine. Smell of boyhood summers.
So good to see you again.
Snapping out of it, I had a brief conference with Sharon. She had her own jasmine memories and, before I knew it, there were five bushes in the back of the FJ Cruiser. A couple hours later, they were looking beautiful in their brand new spot by the wall.
All was well...at least for a few days. Until the beautiful flowers suddenly started looking like this:
For a moment, we worried they were dying. But, upon closer inspection, it was clear they had gone into shock. Before gardening, I had never thought "shock" applied to plants. However, a year and a half into my life as a gardener, I have learned differently. All too often, those lovely, happy plants at the nursery react badly to being put in the ground. Traumatized by the change in environment, they droop. They wilt. Sometimes, they seem to have died. Sometimes, you can fix this by giving them lots of attention. More times than not, you just have to trust they'll get over it and leave them alone. Usually, they pull it together and get back to doing what they do. Grow.
I can relate. This is the state I go into almost every Monday. Ripped from the beauty and happiness of my weekend, I find myself thrown into an environment I feel I have no choice but to accept. I become listless. I slouch. Some days, like today, I feel as if I might die from the shock to the system. I do not need more water. I just need to be left alone, so I can adjust and get back to doing what I do. But unlike a transplanted shrub, I don't need to be there forever. There is home to return to and, when I get there, enough light left in the day to go out to the garden and let the day seep out of my system. Some wine. Some cheese. A hug and a kiss beneath the myrtle.
The day has worn on me but, if I'm lucky, someday I'll catch a whiff of jasmine and the only thing I'll remember is how wonderful it feels to come home.
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