Another Garden Lesson

Things happen in a garden—puzzling things.

One morning I discovered a circle of flat leaves, looking like a ruffled, green dinner plate. I had no idea what it was and couldn’t remember planting anything in that space. Still, it grew.

And grew.

And grew.

Eventually it sported limbs that sported buds.

I asked our neighbor Rob, who has gardens all around his house, for a guess. He investigated, thinking it might be the result of a stray seed in his bird feeder, accidently dropped by a bird or squirrel or chipmunk.

Nope. It did not match anything he put out.

I considered pulling it up but didn’t because something about it was definitely on a survival mission. So I gave in. It wasn’t doing any harm, and we were curious to see what kind of flower developed from those buds. We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, I told Rob’s wife Beth that I was sure it would never produce flowers because it was a weed. She said, “If you love it, then it isn’t a weed.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Actually, I had come to love it—or at least the mystery of it.

Even though no flowers ever appeared, those buds developed a blue fuzz that insects love. Buzzing critters of all shapes and sizes swarm its stems in summer’s sun. At 53 inches in height, it’s quite the buffet.

And none of those diners seem disappointed over the lack of flowers.

So I’m learning from them.

Petals fit for a vase aren’t all there is to beauty.

Bees knew all along about the promise of this plant.

Now, no longer puzzled, I do, too.