Secrets — J. LIU THE INSTRUMENT

My garden, like a proper lover- at least the sort of lover one ends up keeping for the longest- keeps many secrets from me, and reveals them to me, slowly, methodically over time. I’m kept ever guessing as to what new wonder I’ll stumble upon next- the bedrock upon which this relationship has been built. I am made to feel I have made new discoveries, though all the while, I know the garden is the one who has allowed for the reveal, imparting to me a false sense of agency. I know I am subservient. I know too, perhaps, that the garden knows that I know. And yet, isn’t such the basis upon which all honest relationships are built? We assume our roles, and play along.

This past month, I have made some “discoveries” in the garden. They are as follows:

Lily.

Emerging in the dappled shade of the front yard, next to an arborvitae in wet, clay soil, I am met each year with a set of simple leaves, on a sturdy stalk. No flowers have ever appeared, and the plant seemed to make no moves to grow more robust; and so, I assumed that it must have been none other than a weed. Yet, I dared not pull it for fear it might later on reveal itself to be some long forgotten plant nestled in from some long forgotten time, struggling for nutrients- a hypothesis which the plant decided to confirm the truth of this past month.

More astonishing, however, was what this plant turned out to be. In the midst of the aforementioned conditions, a single bud was produced, and opened to reveal itself to be none other than a purple asiatic lily. I was astonished. I had no idea such a thing could have survived countless years of neglect. I was somehow under the impression these lilies were of a fickle brood, requiring very specific treatments, and refused to bloom on the slightest whims of their dislike towards the soil they’d been forced to dwell in. By my preconceived notions, I am baffled. But upon reflection, my only suspicion as to how this plant might be preferring its new conditions might be a consequence of all the new activity of the past two years: digging, removal of dying plants, and the addition of compost and fertilizer for the new daffodils- all this upheaval might have inadvertently given this plant, struggling on its last legs, a new boost.

The flower was small, but nonetheless lovely for a debut after a hiatus of over a decade. I look forward to seeing what the next year brings.

Astilbe.

Next to the asiatic lily, an astilbe has revealed itself. Indeed, I have seen the leaves before, but they were so paltry a set, perhaps about three stems with three leaves each, I thought it better to be cautious and mark it as undetermined before gleefully leaping to the conclusion that it was indeed an astilbe. This year, however, this plant too, has begun to grow more robust. As of yet, no flowers have been produced, but a fine healthy set of leaves have emerged. The imagination salivates at the thought of what color blooms the plant will produce. Here too, I will be sure to keep an eye on it, and report on what findings I glean in the next season.

Watermelon.

This year (as perhaps mentioned ad nauseam), on impulse my mother purchased a pack of watermelon seedlings to attempt to grow in a container. Reluctant at first, I was worn down (as is often the case) by my curiosity and helped her plant out the darned things.

And so, as expected, the seedlings took off as best as they could in the pots we allowed them to take off in. We even sunk in tomato cages, but conscious all along of the futility in the gesture: if the plant really were to go as far as produce a watermelon, the cages would certainly succumb from the weight.

The first day a female flower appeared, the greatest of fusses was made. We eagerly plucked off a male blossom, and peeled away its petals to pollinate the female, as we had seen demonstrated in the videos we relied on so heavily for guidance, and watched everyday to see if our efforts had paid off. And indeed, much to all our surprise, the plant did set fruit. Another great fuss of course was made, and we admired the baby every day. My mother, in particular, was most fond of the growing sphere. She caressed it daily. Said lovely things to it. Slung it up in her pantyhose, and checked on its weight up to three times a day to make sure its supports were still good.

Soon after, another watermelon fruit had set, and then thereafter, another. More fusses and fusses were made, but as it is, with all matters that induce the making of fusses, gradually, as ripples absorbed into a lake, a sense of the regular settles in, and all becomes, once again, blasé. The watermelons became things, just like all other things in our lives. Female blossoms became passing observations. The thought of hand pollinating them became a chore. I found myself spending most of my time sitting far away from the plant, wishing to have nothing to do with it. - And it was in the very midst of sitting far away from it, wishing it didn’t exist, I unexpectedly began to find a great joy in simply looking at the leaves of the watermelon plant. I realized, in short, that they were beautiful. Serrated, yet curved in a manner most delicate yet generous, exuding a flair that is exotic and rare, yet wholly casual and familiar. “Stumbling on melons as I pass…” Yes, of course it would be the leaves of melons I’d imagine myself wading through in Eden.

Busy with admiring the leaves, I almost failed to notice hidden beneath the layers of lacy green, hitherto undiscovered, a small burgeoning watermelon nestled on the ground, growing humbly, quietly all on its own, unaided by human hands and words. I crouched down and set my hands and knees onto the patio, happily scraping them into the rough pavers, as I admired the fruit- small but stout, hidden yet adorned under its leafy cloak- and I understood, and accepted, once again, that in the matters of these grander themes, I was but an accessory. I’ll fuss and fight and fix, and forget, but all the while, quietly, unceasingly, the garden carries on, following its own whims, guiding its own path.