On Anticipation and Surprise (or, An Exercise in Movement)

Rainstorms are a gift. They provide an excuse for me to bring in more daffodils- specifically those which have been blown over, flexible to a fault, faces now in the mud. When they are otherwise displaying a pristine upright stature, I find myself having trouble parting the dear blooms from their leafy counterparts; I am always undecided as to whether they are better enjoyed outside, or from within the domestic comforts of the inside. - Yet, perhaps that is not exactly the best way to phrase my dilemma. The question I ask myself is more so, “In what way do I most prefer to watch these flowers fade? Desiccating outside? Or shriveling up before my eyes on the dining room table inside?”

It’s disappointing to say that so much of gardening is anticipation: anticipation for the bloom, and too shortly thereafter, anticipation of the fade. I had hoped that after gardening for two years now, I’d have gained some sense of patience, but it seems clearer than ever, I have acquired no such thing. (In my defense, however, it has been argued that anticipation is ultimately, the main source of pleasure of any experience; so in that vein, I am thankful to have gained no patience.)

The pleasure begins with the first signs of flower buds appearing. One watches with wonder as they grow from the size of a pinhead, to a pearl, to beyond, swelling to such fullness- though it may be a sight the gardener has seen many times before, the sheer sublimity of it still produces the sensation of a novel experience. Guesses of how large these buds are and will be are compared to the recollected images of those of the previous years. One begins to dream of realizing an idealized bounty replete with overly lush and abundant leaves. I check everyday to note the progression of the swelling in the buds, so much so that time becomes distorted- a week feels like months, two weeks a season. I then become certain, due to all the time I feel has passed, they must be ready to burst. But at this juncture, they never do. They only continue to quietly swell until one day, they reach a point far beyond the fullness the mind had recalled was possible; and then, only then, when the mind is suspended in awe, do the buds open. The oscillation between being certain of a bloom and the disappointment of being denied such results in the ultimate effect that when the bloom finally does arrive, the event is highly satisfying. One feels as if they have endured a great test of their equanimity- and have passed, as they are now being rewarded with the present moment before them: the sight of a beloved blooming.

The next half of anticipation begins almost as soon as the bloom occurs. The petals unfurl, saturated in color as if still wet with paint; and as I watch and drink in the vibrancy, I’m struck with a pang. I almost can’t look. I cannot unsee how fleeting the moment is. These flowers, though still so fresh, will be so only this once. Each second that passes, the morning dew of their youth times already begins to evaporate. I become painfully aware that although my friends have just arrived, too soon must I begin to prepare for their departure.

What is the act of gardening but a long procession of greetings and goodbyes?

I am ever thinking to the next year when I see the prime of the current year. I wonder how it could be better. I betray the performances of the current year with a mistress named, “the future”. She promises to be much better than this, and I am ever too easily taken in by her suggestions.

But that “the future” is promised to be better is not true. Indeed, not true at all. To this day, one of my fondest memories of the garden occurred in the first year I began my endeavor. I had never before attempted to plant flowers, and seeing as how digging in the ground seemed to me too much work and the prospect of encountering subterranean creatures all too frightening, I opted to try planting flowers in containers. I ended up with a wide array of cosmos in plastic pots, all lined up on the wooden patio, which, warped and worn over the years, meant its collapse was imminent. I had no idea what I was doing. I just tucked in the seeds in the beginning of June, and waited, and waited and waited and waited, until one day in September, the blooms, one by one, as if kernels set over heat, popped open. Little stars of fuchsia, pink and white bespeckled a backdrop of bright green grass.

- It was mid-morning when I stepped outside and my head was pounding with a mixture of two cups of coffee and the dehydration that comes with some late summer mornings. The sun blazed and blared, compounding the effect of an unrelenting rhythm. I felt as if with every pulse, the sun’s rays were beating me, like rubber mallets of warm air, tenderizing my flesh. The light was blinding. All I could see were spots of fuchsia, pink and white glittering all across my field of vision. Birds chirped and insects made their funny little noises. In this kind of heat, the gesture was futile, but I watered the plants anyway. The water, once poured, reflected the sun and added a thousand blinding jewels to the splendor. Dazzled, I was certain I had died and gone to Elysium.

I passed these moments, rapt in wonder, awed and humbled by the acknowledgement that the simplest aspects of our existence possess such potency to transport us beyond the thick fog of routine.

But as it is, of course, with the nature of this existence, we still have “things to do” things to do inside, things to do outside. It matters not where they are, just that they always happen to be away from Elysium. We raise ourselves from our lovely death to tend to our fleshy bodies. Night falls, and the dream ends.

Not since then have I been able to bring that Elysium back.

Last year, my efforts were focused on planting different kinds of flowers, an aim at trying to find the form of the garden. This year, my efforts have been focused on fine tuning that form, and beginning to renovate smaller areas as an experiment of finally implementing my, up until then, completely theoretical designs.

But way before all this, in the very first year I ever held the desire for a garden, my only goal was to grow something. To see if anything could bloom. Way before things got complicated. Before form was a consideration. Before the succession of blooms through the season became a thought. Before soil testing. Before pH balance. Before N-P-K. Way before knowledge came, it was just a pure pounding- a pounding of fuscia, pink, white, the sun, the water, the jewels- all pounding, pounding, pounding into my head, my veins, the entirety of my existence- which I become all too aware of is, ultimately, just as fleeting as the blooms themselves.