Still Waiting

Days are shorter these days. Autumnal equinox is approaching and the sun travels noticeably lower in the sky. As the great blooming of summer comes to a conclusion, I feel my connection to the garden loosening and already I’m beginning to think about which seeds I want to start next March.

The fourteen morning glory seeds I planted in mid-May have created a lush screen of green on the north side of the pergola. While every small sprout that comes from a seemingly inert seed is a miracle, the height and the abundance of the morning glory foliage is astonishing. The heart shaped leaves, each the size of a human hand, have grown in abundance—launching out from every inch of twisting stem which keeps seeking support to rise. Hundreds and hundreds.

But my lush morning glories plants that twine delightfully on themselves and whatever is offered are empty of flowers. Each day when I water, I check for buds, the small conical pods that portend the azure trumpets that delight me so. But not one has appeared. And just yesterday, my helpful google photo app showed me some pictures of my morning glory plants from several years ago—covered with blooms. I suppose I should just appreciate the foliage, but….

I’m not a careful gardener. I’m an enthusiastic gardener. I don’t like to keep detailed records or work too hard to get things just right. This spring I did try to keep track of exactly when I planted my seeds, but even in that, I was rather sporadic. I much prefer to let the garden do the work. This serves me well on the enjoyment front, but I think I miss some of the subtleties of what is going on—like maybe why my morning glories aren’t blooming.

I admire detail people—people who take careful notes of what they do and learn the subtleties of the process they are involved in. I care about details, but only in the moment, then my wayward attention is taken by the next details. I want the immediacy of the thing itself—the touch, the smell, the shape. I care about the sense of the whole and how the particulars come together to create something more. It’s the something more I study and depend on. I want to be surprised. Purposefully vague in my intentions, I trust that what emerges will be better than any detailed plan I could draw up.

I try to watch and learn as I go. Of course I remember which plants are happy where. I have a sense how much sun falls where and whether it is the easy morning sunlight or the demanding afternoon blaze. I notice the naturally damp places and the drier spots. But I don’t remember and am not consistent in exactly what mix I use for my potted plants. Sometimes I mix compost and leaf mold with growing medium. Sometimes I use only growing medium. Sometimes one brand, and sometimes another. Fortunately, usually it doesn’t make any difference.

Mastering any creative art, like gardening or cooking, is partly about learning what differences make a difference. A recipe that calls for one cup of onions, will probably be fine with a quarter cup more or less. But a tablespoon of salt where a teaspoon is called for could be disastrous. Certainly each plant has its own preferences for water, soil and light. I have learned that some are flexible and some are fussy. I tend to prefer the flexible plants which are able to cope with the vagaries of my memory and the weather itself.

But with the annuals I grow from seed and buy each spring at the local nurseries, once something flourishes in a particular place, I repeat it again next year. Nasturtiums are always nestled between the three columns in the southeastern corner of the porch. (Though trailing nasturtiums are lovely in the garden itself, in this garden, the seedlings are quickly gobbled up by the bunnies that are not gobbled up themselves by the foxes who are not run over by the cars when crossing the street.)

For eleven years now, I have planted morning glory seeds in large rectangular planters that rest in hangers on the pergola behind the weeping cherry tree behind the Buddha. They always flourish and obediently climb the five strings I place for them to guide their way to the top. As the ratio of leaf surface to volume of soil in the container rises, I have learned to water them more and more. These days it’s a gallon of water in the morning for each planter and then an afternoon top off if the day is especially hot.

But still no blossoms. There’s been plenty of sun and I know they like the hot weather. They say that if the soil is too rich they won’t bloom, but I haven’t put any fertilizer on them all summer. They also say that God takes her own time.

So for now, I’ll practice appreciating the rising and tangled green cloud of leaves while I keep an expectant watch for signs of cerulean delight.