My Rose of Sharon, One Year Later

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

--Anna Akhmatova 

Sometimes we must genuflect before the poignant confluence of art and life. 


 
A crimson sky bathed the rear garden in an ethereal glow moments before darkness shrouded this part of the world--yet it was not at the time conceived of as a prelude to the dramatic storms that would follow several hours later. 

Torrents of wind-driven rain produced a turbulent river down the street, carrying the detritus of human life and the limbs and leaves of trees with it; rolling crescendos peaked into the denouement of piercing claps of thunder; and razor-sharp streaks of lighting slashed the skies while illuminating black, angry clouds.

I did hear thunder and I did remember her: our beloved Sharon who left this world one year ago today.

And this morning she appeared to me in different form: an exuberant display of her favorite flower in my garden: Blaze Starr Rose Mallow, which last year in commemoration of her brief life and indescribably humbling relationship with her cancer, I dubbed my Rose of Sharon.

Not to be overly metaphysical about it. 

But Sharon identified with the flower: for her, looking across the street every morning for weeks during summer's midpoint and decrescendo, she absorbed its beauty, mused on it.  It was often the opening salvo of our daily morning conversations, her sitting on her stoop having coffee, me, emerging to feed the outdoor cats.

But the sunset, the storms, the Akhmatova poem (a particular favorite of mine), Rose Mallow's first display of more than 6 flowers at a time: their junction struck me as a sign.

But the cancer...

But it was her cancer. She took ownership of it in order to accept it. She did not fight in the way we normally attribute "struggles" or "battles" with cancer; in this way, she lived Susan Sontag's exegesis, Illness as Metaphor. And her ownership of this virulent, fast-consuming thing, we think, helped her move forward and live "normally" for months with few ostensible effects. And then suddenly, one morning she awoke, and she appeared different, for the cancer, overnight, transformed the physicality of our beloved Sharon. And such began the rapid descent...

We may find and derive meaning in and from the lives of others: what they do and how they are helps us intuit their Being. And Sharon did ever so much, welcoming us into a predominantly African-American neighborhood, when many looked down upon us with disgust and suspicion, and warding off the vitriol sent our way. And over the years, we cultivated a harmony and camaraderie because, as she occasionally said, we are all in this together. That's what Sharon brought to this world. And what she left us.

And so today I see signs of her, and celebrate her life, even if the celebration is marked by tears and pangs of pain, much like the fuchsia droppings of Rose Mallow as she discards those magnificent blossoms daily, during the evening, as if exhausted from serving as a vanguard of beauty.

Such is the residue of a powerful life lived that all of us must bear.

My Pharos, My Beacon

From seemingly time immemorial, we humans have relied on various artifices to help navigate our way in the world, whether literally or metaphorically.

For the physical journey, lighthouses dot the coasts, punctuating darkness with astonishing flare. On land, that ubiquitous green sign dominates our street-scapes and highways.

Talismans of varying sort--rabbit feet, mezuzot, prayer beads, omamori, nazars--keep us safe, ward off evil, bring us health. Scripts, scriptures, sutras, discourses, gospels, hymns, tantras, Vedas, Bibles, Torahs, Korans, Nikayas, and Angas  provide a different kind of navigation for a journey much more intimate, sacred, and personal than many dare admit. That journey is hardly accomplished once a week in a crowded (or, given contemporary proclivities, not so crowded) room with others. Rather, that journey begins each day when we look into the mirror and stare back at the shell and the history and the life and the being that look back at us. And that journey continues each moment in our interactions with others, and is paved or pitted with every gesture or act or engagement in the world. 


We need, in other words, guidance to face the Supreme Mystery. This mystery is not the Divine. No. It is Life.

Life itself is our Supreme Mystery. Each of us must in our unique ways reconcile the Being we inhabit with the world around us. How are we to live is the question that we think all of the talismans, amulets, and sacred texts ultimately answer. 

Sometimes, though, the answer to that question is much more pressing, much more momentary, and actually morphs into another related question: how am I to get through?

This summer has been one of obligations too numerable to think about, and, worse, the production of sub-standard work that has required additional time and labor to rectify my shortcomings. And so I find myself with little time to garden (or blog, hence the paucity of entries of late), and I feel all the worse for it.

Early yesterday morning--ahead of a very busy day--I ventured outside to feed Miss Grey Kitty, and there was my Pharos, my beacon: Rose Mallow. She offered me her first bloom of the season on a day I needed it most.

We do find our amulets in unexpected places. We simply need to be attuned to them, and to know and trust ourselves to intuit and accept the messages they communicate to us.

 
In this case, stopping to smell the proverbial rose (proverbial indeed: Rose Mallow is only in name a rose, and is rather in the Hibiscus family!) proved my amulet, my talisman, my moment to stop spinning wheels and engage in that which revives me: gardening.

Bad-Boys: Watcha Gonna Do When They Come For You?

Surely it must be cliché that all fathers are protective of their daughters, especially when said daughters reach dating age. No paramour is good enough for your girl; no man is man enough, etc. etc.

And so it is with my Rose…no, no, not the flower, but Rose. Rose Mallow.

No father in his right mind would admit this publicly, but as I’m an unconventional guy in some respects, I'll do it. Okay, so here it goes: Rose is an attractive, even seductive gal. Sure, I’ve previously written about her, especially her taste in ‘clothes’. Though she usually dons a stunning burgundy colored gown, the summer heat compelled her to swap that out for more appropriate attire: a summer dress of a particularly attractive shade of lime green, accented by burgundy stockings. Even despite her clothes, Rose Mallow offers an intense, sharp appearance: her deeply lobed, palmated leaves extend from her slender legs, hands outstretched beckoning you to enjoy the summer breeze with her.

Lately I’ve noticed that Rose is attracting certain neighborhood thugs: Japanese beetles. Sure, they are attractive in their own right, and I can see what Rose sees in them: their copper-colored elytra and green thorax, accentuated by a glossy sheen that, when the light hits their body just so, makes them seem other-worldly, a masculine ruggedness encased in ethereal beauty. (Goodness, I feel an interlocutor in Plato’s Symposium just writing about this.) Almost love at first sight…Except when I stomp on them and smear their innards across the stone walkway—then, well, they are not so attractive.

As with most thugs, their initial bad-boy charm quickly erodes. Beauty compels us to do things we otherwise wouldn’t do, and so certain of our daughters—Rose Mallow and the "ordinary" roses, climbing hydrangeas and crepe myrtles, in short, the most lady like in the plant kingdom—allow these boys to engage in some rather enticing foreplay—little bites here and there. Oh, how titillating! At first this doesn’t bother, but then the bites become more extensive, and these paramours invite others to partake in what soon becomes an orgy. The gang takes advantage of her generosity, and soon our daughters are encased in beetles, their leaves rapidly becoming skeletal reminders of the dangers of seduction.

So let this be a warning, folks, of the dangers of bad-boys—especially those in gangs. If you see one, destroy him, because one attracts the others. And don’t buy those ridiculous pheromone traps, which have been proven to attract more than they trap and kill. Also, while many encourage you to shake your daughters’ branches and let the beetles drop into soapy water (yes, there is something tragically wonderful about watching these things drown), I find that several are smarmy enough to fly away.

My advice: be ruthless and grab those buggers by your hands, throw them to the ground, and quickly stomp. It’s much more effective.

So, bad boys, watcha gonna do when I come for you?!

Die, that’s what.

Color in the Garden: Red

Hours before its partial eclipse, and hours before its totality, the waxing gibbous moon rose in the dusky blue sky above Wilmington. At first, it was barely noticeable, a faint disk set against a hazy, steel-blue backdrop. But as it ascended into the darkening azure sky, its color became more pronounced: its reddish hue became deeper, richer, then gradually shaded to salmon, and now, at 9:11 p.m., appears vibrant red-orange. Here it is: the Strawberry or Rose Moon, Vanguard of the Early Summer Evening Sky.

Red: the color of the lascivious and the corporeal. Red pulses through our veins; titillates the extremities and urges; commands attention; connotes courage; signals danger and, in some cultures, death; and pushes the bounds of excitability.

Tempestuous and audacious, the primal force of red awakens the creative spirit, propels, compels, seizes, and rejects. The most dynamic of colors, red magnifies its own power, elevates its self, and projects energy into the world. Paired with the vibrancy of green, red is intensified and uplifts. Juxtaposing red to yellows and oranges inflames its passion. Red set against blues or silvers at first dramatizes, then tames an otherwise mercurial display.

Red—electric and bedazzling—needs tempering, and I think Rose Mallow (Hibiscus coccineus, ‘Blaze Starr’ varietal) knows it. For now, she has swapped the stunning burgundy red hue she has donned over her deeply lobed, palmated leaves for a vibrant green. And I have a theory. In a few weeks, she will sport those accoutrements than have earned her the nickname ‘summer poinsettia’: stunning scarlet red flowers, each with 5 elongated petals, yearning to be ogled and touched.

Rose Mallow is a refreshing garden resident. Her stalwart beauty cheerily greets all who venture to 410’s front steps. And she is confident without being cocky; she relies not always on her floral display to attract attention, but is content to permit her unusual red-hued, serrated foliage to do the work for her. And yet even while she shines, she comfortably recedes into the panoply.

This year red lacks a prominent floral display in my garden: Rose Mallow and a blood red dahlia are left to carry the load that was once shared with red chrysanthemums, among others, which the February winter storms eliminated. But I am finding that lack of red acceptable, for it concentrates and thus heightens the impact of this most vibrant of colors.

I have also found opportunity in those winter losses: I welcomed both Rose Mallow and a Japanese maple into the garden this spring. And I have (re)discovered the joys of texture, color, and variation of foliage—certainly a more understated approach to introducing diversity into the garden, and, I sometimes think, a more effective way of communicating to the outside world and working with color. Sure, we all want to seduced by brilliant, colorful flowers—but too much can be, well, too much. The eye scans, cannot rest, and the garden is a blur. Pockets of color interspersed among rich tapestries of textured, serrated, variegated, hued foliage offers the eye and, more importantly the mind, opportunity for repose and reflection. The garden becomes you, and you become the garden. And we take it with us.

 

This year, the brilliant red new growth star-shaped leaves of Mountain Fire Pieris japonica, Rose Mallow’s burgundy attire, the potted Vancouver Geranium’s rich burnt red (which intensifies with increased exposure to the sun), Ligularia dentate (Britt Marie Crawford) and the quintessential red Japanese maple serve as the Vanguard of the Garden, quietly ascending, offering, like the Strawberry Moon, a dazzling array of colorful variation and permitting us to see deep into and beyond the early summer haze.