I’ve spent the past 22+ years marking time by what’s happening in my yard.
I have these daffodils that grow along the foundation in the front of my house. They typically start to shoot up out of the frozen ground by early February, aided by full-day sunshine and the radiant warmth of the concrete. They are the harbingers of warmer and lengthier days to come.
There is a lilac bush right next to our deck. The wood of the main root system is decaying, so it tends to get leggy with new growth. My husband aggressively trims it each year and I am convinced he is trying to kill it. Undeterred, it returns each year and rewards me with fragrant blooms right around Mother’s Day. I resonate with that plucky little bush…it reminds me of me in many ways.
Our wedding anniversary and my youngest daughter’s birthday typically occur during the height of peony season, which is my favorite growing season. When I think about my garden and how much I am going to miss it, these are the flowers I cry over. Peonies were the main flower in my wedding bouquets and I have such a deep emotional connection to them. I am absolutely heart-sick that this is going to be the last time I reap the bounty of these selfless and low maintenance blooms. But, it’s looking to be a good season, a parting love nod from Mother Earth, and I am abundantly grateful for that.
There’s usually a bit of a lull between peony season and my summer showstoppers—a lull where the vinca begins to creep along the shadier parts of the yard, the hostas triple in size, and the snowball-like blooms of my viburnum bush can be seen from down the block. I fill that lull with a wide assortment of lush container gardens overflowing with annuals. By the time we return from our annual summer vacation at the end of June, the yard is typically in full bloom with all of the perennials doing their thing—coneflowers and bee balm and hibiscus and sedum and daisies, to name a few. At this point in the growing season, aside from some weeding and some watering, I get to sit back and simply enjoy the fruits of my labors; more so if the resident groundhogs haven’t taken up residence under my shed.
I don’t yet know how to live my adult life without a garden; without something to care for and tend to outside of the confines of the four walls we call home. I don’t yet know how to mark time without flowers and a growing season to pay attention to.
When we move away from these gardens and down to the sea in a month, I’m sure I will eventually find new seasonal markers that complement the turning of pages on the calendar. Maybe there is a tree on the grounds I can pay attention to. Maybe I will notice birdsong or there will be an unmistakable pattern to the tides. Maybe the angle of the sun will become my guiding compass. Or maybe I will become one of those people who marks time by the ebb and flow of tourism.
I’ll figure it out eventually. I’ll eventually root myself into new traditions and the anticipation of new observations. That will come Later. Now has me feeling kind of unmoored and adrift. Wistful. Unsure. Disoriented. Lost somewhere in the vast In Between.