I almost bought into it. In fact, I did, hook, line, and sinker, as they say. How gulible can a would-be gardener get? I’m so simple. But I can now accept that I wasn’t completely innocent or fully responsible for the results. Karma rules, and yet, it isn’t the only player in any game.
There it was, fresh from Figaro’s, a high quality garden shop. It was a massive spread of luxuriant foliage, with many high stalks of long strings of buds almost ready to open to a feathery mass of red bloom. And now, what a sad state it’s in.
How did it happen? What did I do wrong? Isn’t that what every gardener, and would-be, if she could could be gardener moan? What did the plant need that I didn’t, or couldn’t give? The astilbe seemed to sense my dissaproval of the quality of my care, and played into it for all it was worth.
Thinking back, I now realize that I had been so impressed with how massive the plant was, and how beautifully healthy it seemed to be, that I had temporarily forgotten; how could I forget? It’s a common rule when transplanting any plant overly abundant with foliage, to cut it back, perhaps even by one-third, to compensate for the shock of transplanting that the roots suffer from. Vanity at being able to claim such a precious plant as my own, had, I guess, closed my mind to the responsibility of providing ultimate care for it.
My precious little patio is in the shade, and yet, astilbes are noted for their ability to endure shade. Sure, but how much shade is too much for even shade tolerant plants to endure. My little patio seems designed to put them to the test. And yet, even on my shady patio, there are areas of more and/or less shade. I had set my new treasure into a large pot on the shadiest side of the patio. Why? Because that’s where the pot was.
Why was there an empty pot on the shadiest side of my shady patio. You guessed it. some previous occupant, a dearly beloved Yew, had seemingly suddenly to have developed an inability to survive. Did it leave negative energy behind? How can I know.
So, here I am, feeling so very guilty, and the plant playing it up for all it’s worth. Don’t kids do that to parents, at times. “See, Mom, it’s all your fault.” I tried to compensate for what I had done wrong, if I had done anything wrong. I was beginning to regain my self-composure. I moved a little table from the sunnier (?) side of the patio, to the inner, sliding glass door side, where the plant was, and I moved the pot out into the light, or at least to the most light that it would likely get on my shady patio.
Then, I fussied all over it, snipping out the little bits of drying foliage and taking care not to overwater it – had that been a factor? It’s pot did seem damp, even after several days.
How did the plant respond
to my tender loving care, albeit after the fact? It moaned and groaned and continued to display increasing amounts of drying leaves. Oh dear. And then, a sudden insight, or was it a message sent from the trees that shelter my little patio – not from the sun, for I’m on the North side of the building, but from the people, places, and things that might otherwise impinge on my need for privacy. I suddenly felt much more approving of myself. Thanks to whomever or whatever sent the message.
What was the message? Sure, we’re each and all responsible for everything that happens in our life, but only to the extent that we might have been responsible for it having happened. And, how can we ever know? I’ll continue to fussy over the now sickly-looking plant, and care for it as well as I can, and yet, I can’t give it what it most needs, and which it can only give to itself; the will to live.
Perhaps the day will come when psychologists will face their clients with this reality; “I can help you to help yourself, but, in the final analysis, only you can choose to develop a healthy lifestyle. What has happened in the past is, or can be, left behind, while we focus on the future. Or, we can follow the path of least resistance, and choose to pretend that the past has denied us of a future.”
My astilbe is now in the driver’s seat of responsibility.
Simple Seekers 