Miraculous Findings

The hibiscus plant at the top of the waterfall is blooming again. Its deep red blossoms are feathery dinner plates—magically floating five feet off the ground through the careful grace of leaf and stem below. I can just see it through the morning darkness. Such an unlikely manifestation of life.

Last year, by this time, its leaves were shredded—lacy remains of insect feasting. A friend and I brushed off all the little bugs we could find, but we had few blossoms. I was worried the whole plant might not come back this year. But it did and after one morning of killing little worms that were beginning to eat the leaves in May, the hibiscus plant has been thriving. One never knows.

Most flowers seem impossible to me—the symmetrical and intricate shapes made out of the thinnest of living tissue—each one beyond the skill of the finest craftsman. And the vibrant hues that seem effortless in their richness and gradations. I could perhaps understand if one plant made one flower—like daffodils or tulips. But the abundance of most flowering plants is astonishing.

I’m always surprised. A seed. Some dirt, water and sun. A trick to amaze nursery school children. The sunflower seedlings I gave to some friends a few months ago are now ten feet tall with stems as thick as the handle of a baseball bat. The tops are covered with nodding round heads filled with scores and scores of more seeds.

How generous and robust is the energy of life that continually shapes itself. Always blooming and always falling away in a dance with no gaps. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is not held by everything else.

A green praying-mantis-type bug walks along the other side of the glider. A walking leaf – legs as thin as pieces of thread robustly carry the little fellow on his morning constitutional. I feel a strange kinship with him though he may be off to munch on one of my favorite plants. But perhaps he’s after the insects that ate last year’s hibiscus leaves. I wish him well and we make plans to check in again tomorrow morning.