Cliff Edge

Lilacs grow richly on the cliff edge -- and only on the cliff edge! -- and make quite a display for passersby on the highway below. During their brief springtime bloom, I get an armful or so for the house and porch and giveaways to the benighted who do not have lilacs. (How they got up here in a sand glade I don't know.) They rank with bluebirds and crocuses as one of my favorite things and one I will crawl onto a cliff edge for. Who wouldn't? As long as I can, I will, and I would grieve if I didn't.

This time the usual approach to the cliff edge was overgrown, already, with leafy understory junk shrubs and vines. Up a slope of tall grass with bits of sandstone gravel imploding under my treads, shouldering past an electrical pole, stepping over fallen logs and a patch of prickly pear cactus growing in a sandy microclimate one foot square -- never know what you'll find around here! -- keeping my balance, some lilacs were within my reach. The greater part of the display just swayed in the wind and laughed.

Lilacs are not Missouri native plants or even North American. They're from Eastern Europe and Asia. To whoever sneaked them over here, thank you, and I understand you completely.

Alternative Facts

Planted the amaryllis my neighbor gave me for Christmas, using nice potting soil to encourage it. And the bulb sat with its one yellow shoot pointing up, forever, for a month. Not growing or greening. The shoot's tip was dry and brown so I figured I killed it, or a mouse gnawed it, or it was a dud--the rare, one-in-every-10,000 dud amaryllis bulb (I am so centrally important to the universe that rare things happen to me).

The only direct sunlight in winter is in the morning, in the guest room/office, and I tried giving it light. At first I thought I was imagining it, but the yellow blade turned spring-green and grew. Temperatures rose into the 50s outside (global warming is a Chinese rumor to trick the United States out of manufacturing) and I sat it on the porch in a sunny spot on warm days and a blossom end formed and swelled into a pod. Up against a light you can see a shadow developing inside. This morning one side of the pod was split open about an inch. I peeked, trying to see what color bloom it has in there, but I'll have to wait.

P.S. Recently it was my birthday. Several people thought to give me crayons, coloring books, and toys. ("Divine is so lonely or crazy she needs these to fill her time.") Actually I see more people than ever and am working on the greatest project of my life, and so are you, and the amaryllis is an object lesson.

The Happiest Day of the Year

Here it is -- the day I await all winter: the first crocus in the lawn, plus a bud for lagniappe. Joy; all doubts fade; all things are possible. The whole world looks beautiful now that it's reframed as spring. No wonder the ancient New Year came in March. I tore the plastic from the front window so I can see the east again, where the sun and the moon rise. It tore some of the paint from the house. I'll patch it up later.

The White Carnation Story

I've been shy about it for four years, but now I'll tell you I'm a cancer survivor who was cured but must visit the cancer center quarterly to get checked up on. It's a lovely building but the waiting room is soccer-field size and always jam-packed with cancer patients, all kinds, all stages (except kids) and their families. Our number always appalls me. In the elevator there I have been surprised to meet friends who were coming or going. In the waiting area a nurse rings a brass bell when somebody goes into remission, and we all applaud and cheer.

But the hundreds of people, just the number, depresses and grieves me, and it's not a happy place, and I'm always alone when most people aren't, and the water cooler is always empty, and although I like the staff (they saved my life) I dread going there. Did you know there's a national magazine just for cancer patients? They've got lots of copies in case you want to take one home (I don't).

My appointment was March 14. There was no room for me to sit. I was standing with my back to a wall when a group of very young women came in, all giggling and whatnot. They were college girls. "We're such-and-such sorority," one of them said, and they shouldered through the crowd handing everyone a white carnation. I got one too.

Very surprised, I said, "Thanks.  Do you want a donation, a dollar for your club or something?"

"Oh no," said the girl. "We're just handing out flowers."

"Why?" I asked, because this had never happened before.

"To cheer you up," she said.

I had to turn away because I about burst into tears right there.

Carefully I brought the carnation home and although its edges are brown now I keep it because it reminds me: No kindness is ever wasted. As Scouts we had to go sing Christmas carols in nursing homes, and in school collect for clothing drives, and in college serve at soup kitchens, and do things for other people not so fortunate as we. I used to think it was useless and embarrassing, and that sending cards or visiting was tedious, and couldn't see the point of calling to say hi, and very often I have thought my kindness and good intentions wasted, that I had cheated myself, that nothing had been achieved. I bet those sorority girls thought "Now this is such a stupid idea. I'm soooo embarrassed. This can't help anybody." Now that I'm on the other side, I see: Oh no; none of that is true at all.

Love Medicine

Meet the Great Blue Lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica). It is an autumn flower, uncommon but of course we have it here, growing over a small stream (see photo of its environment below right; the lobelia likes "seepy areas"). The wildflower ID book I rely on reveals its old-time uses:

"The Mesquakies used great blue lobelia in love medicines. The roots were finely chopped and mixed into the food of a quarrelsome couple without their knowledge. This, they believed, would avert divorce and make the couple love each other again. Other tribes used root tea for syphilis..."

The book: Kurz, Don. Ozark Wildflowers: a Field Guide to Common Ozark Wildflowers. Helena, MT: Falcon, 1999. ISBN 1-56044-730-3.

Wildflower Week, May 5

It's phlox. But it's different. The petals are lobed, not separate and defined. That's because it's creeping phlox, Phlox subulata. I love the blue flowers.

How Life Gets Around

I love thinking that the tiniest corners of the world vibrate with life, whether we see it or care or not, or get a photo, or laugh, or sigh at how much this looks like a loving and familiar kiss. And in August, with summer in its highest gear, everything not only vibrates, it hums.

Phases of the Coneflower

If you can plant one perennial, plant coneflowers (Echinacea). Missouri coneflowers do beautiful things every day in June. Like fireworks in very very slow motion. Plant them once and they will do the rest. These are the most popular flowers around, visited by bees, sipped by hummers, and finally – when the seedheads are dry– swung on by goldfinches. All photos were taken June 1: the best, most promising day of the entire year.

A Mind Like Wild Mint

Popping up in the roadside, this beautiful complicated bloom called either Bee Balm or Horsemint. To me it looks like an image of the human mind. For a while I confused it with the passionflower. Horsemint in Latin: Monarda bradburiana.

Has 101 uses. The leaves make a minty tea. Says Wikipedia: "Bee Balm is the natural source of the antiseptic Thymol, the primary active ingredient in modern commercial mouthwash formulas. The Winnebago used a tea made from Bee Balm as a general stimulant." Also says it's related to oregano, but I can't see any family resemblance.

Dear Diary (March 21)

Crocus at Last!

As usual, a surprise -- the best surprise in the world. Another spring! Heralded by my favorite flower! Thank you, world, for this gift. Just when our hearts need it most.

Crocus, Poke Us

Here's the spring's first Blue Pearl crocus. Yes, I plant 'em. It's always the first flower to waken. Last year it appeared Feb. 5. Winter has been persistent, so this year it was March 5. The Blue Pearl is a type of snowdrop, flowering even before the familiar vivid yellow and white and purple crocuses. That's snow you see in the background. Twist my arm and I'll have to say I like Blue Pearl crocus flowers better than any other on earth.

Comes with a Lifetime Guarantee

"A bud is an undeveloped branch, flower or inflorescence which is found at the tip of a shoot or in the angle of a leaf." - Singapore Science Center

A bud is also a guarantee -- one of the very few guarantees in this world: that spring will come. (These are buds of young hickory trees here on the property.)