Somehow I am always surprised to look up and find myself in the middle of September. I don’t know why this is. Summer passes so fast, still year after year I reach this side only to look back toward May with a bit of nostalgia, and guilt.
My intentions were so genuine on those cool Spring mornings. This is the year, I tell myself, I will tend to my garden with attention and love. I will mulch. I will fertilize. I will water. Every day, if that’s what it requires. No matter how late I get home or how tired I feel—I WILL WATER.
You know where this is going. My commitment wanes in direct proportion to the rising South Carolina heat.
And so I found myself, once again this September, with a garden barely hanging on. I made my way to the roses, pruning sheers in hand, and did the most civilized thing I could. I started cutting, removing the starved branches, collecting leaves dotted with black spot for disposal far from other living things.
In no time, the deed was done. I offered yet another apology—as well as a few words of encouragement—to the stripped garden. Then I walked back to the kitchen thinking hard about the power of nature to forgive and rejuvenate.
Just this past Sunday I looked out through the screen porch and marveled at what I saw. Amid the thorns, one single, surviving, perfect yellow rose.
30 Days of Grace