My tulips are about to bloom again. This will be their third year. I have spent much of the fall and winter wondering, again, if anything is happening to the dormant bulbs. Did I cut the flowers down correctly? Will any come back? Am I supposed to do something with them? I’ve simply left them underground, untended.
One day a few weeks ago, they sprouted above ground. A good two inches of green leaves and stems making their way upward. It was enough to make me head outside, grudgingly obligated to help usher in their latest, third bloom. I removed any obstacles – rocks, weeks, bark – from their path. Once.
I’m a reluctant gardener. I just Googled reluctant _______ and found that term. It’s perfect for me. I don’t like watering; I hate weeding. My friendly neighbors crossed the street to gawk and laugh about the rare sight of me on my hands and knees, in the dirt. But there I was, shoving aside bark bits that roamed over the top of the tulips from the overgrown bushes of some sort that are in front of the tiny areas I could now call my tulip beds, pulling unwanted grass shoots and yanking up pretty little clover-type things, finally tossing them over my shoulder onto the driveway. Where they remain.
Wouldn’t you know, the tulips have inched their way upward, color is now visible around their closed buds, they’re a respectable height. Tulips will bloom outside our front windows, making our house seem more colorful, more inviting, more home-like.
My first reaction was a mixture of surprise, meta-surprise (they are called perennials, after all, so by definition they are to live more than two years. Three, as far as I know, is more than two, making my surprise, well, surprising. Next year, surprise would make more sense, because there’s no number limit on “after two.”), and burden. Really? Do I have to water them again all summer? I felt not a whit of bother or burden on their first bloom, and not much on their second. But here I am, having done no work to get this seasonal splash of beauty, and I’m wondering how I’m going to get out in the mornings to give them a little bit of water.
What started as a family project – and one of my better-inspired ones, let’s be clear – has become just another part of our lives. We have each stopped briefly to comment, but we no longer gaze in wonder. We no longer bask in our family-inspired genius, reflected back in each millimeter of growth or degree to which the petals open.
The bloom is off this tulip/rose, and what remains are memories. The planning. The hours-long trip to the gardening store to procure every last item needed to plant new bulbs, pages of drawings and instructions written down as fast as the Real Gardener could speak. The first shoot to peek out of the ground. Photos tracking the progress. The first blossom seemingly tied to a calendar page turn, April at the top and, “Hey! One of our tulips opened!” The magic of flowers actually blooming and color and a deep sense of family victory. The three-years-younger selves now found inconsistently only in memory.
This year’s bloom offers something the first two didn’t: the taken-for-granted joy that comes with pleasures taken often.