The morning glories that gloriously bloomed through most of the summer have not returned. In the spring, my intention was to repeat last year’s success. I followed the same steps – but decided to try some new colors. But May was so cold that the first seedlings I set out didn’t survive. But new seedlings sprouted quickly and eventually the plants began to grow with vigor.
Now in early August, the jute strings rising to the pergola are hidden in the tangle of the generously lobed leaves. The tendrils—having long since risen to the top—keep rising and fall to the sides. They twist and turn like puppies chasing each other for the sheer joy of the play. Arcing gracefully, they spray carelessly away from the support—into midair.
And today, the second blossom of the season appeared. Of course, it is a delicate miracle of blue. I do my best to appreciate it - to greet it with appropriate approbation and gratitude. But mostly my mind runs to questions. ‘Where are your brothers and sisters? Did I feed you too much or not enough? How have I failed as a parent? How could you disappoint me like this?’ These silly questions make appreciation difficult but seem to rise up unbidden from some endlessly deep well of dissatisfaction.
Meanwhile, in a pot on a nearby table, brilliant blossoms of crimson impatiens wiggle slightly in the morning breeze. They care not a fig for my fancy speculating, but call wordlessly with the endless song of beauty and perfect sufficiency. And I look over once again to the single morning glory blossom and think: ‘Maybe just one is enough.’
