 |
| Mom's Camellia |
The Camellia was as old as I was. It grew and thrived next to the side porch at my parent's brick house in Seaboard for more than 50 years. My dad and his friend, Bill Davis, finished building the house in 1959 and I was born in 1960 so we grew in parallel. Mom recalls putting in a few boxwood, azaleas, and the Camellia soon after the house was built and I was born. Details are cloudy in her 93 year old mind and she thinks perhaps she may have planted it as a shoot from the shrub next door, where her parents, and her young family lived before I was born.
The Camellia was a vital part of our lives. We thrilled to see it's fuschia blooms in the otherwise grey landscape of winter. Time and time again, we plucked blooms surrounded by glossy green leaves, which were invariably sturdier than the delicate pink blossoms and brought them inside to add a touch of color. Beginning in my UNC years and extending for decades, my mom adopted a ritual that she practiced each blooming season. Before I pulled out of the driveway to head to the Triangle, she would pick the choicest flowers, wrap their stems in wet paper towels and then secure that with aluminum foil and they would ride shotgun on my trips back to first UNC and then my Durham home. We continued this practice when she began living with me and we visited Seaboard for a few days each month. But then, she became too infirm for the trip - and the Camellia's roots had begun to infiltrate the foundation of the home, so both the visits - and the Camellia became, regrettably, things of the past.
As a young homeowner, I dug up a root from my grandparents' house and it grew like wildfire beside our snug starter home in Durham. Every winter it was laden with blooms and one glance made me feel closer to Seaboard. The shoot was from a variegated variety, but when blossoms first appeared we were astonished to see that they were pure white.
Seventeen years and two teenage boys later, we needed more room and bought a new house across town. I was sad to leave the Camellia behind and lamented often my lack of foresight. Why didn't I start a few shoots to take with us? Just last week, mom and I drove by the old house to see it if was there and still blooming. It was - tall sturdy- and full of blooms.
After my family moved into the new house, and Mom's Camellia was still thriving in Seaboard I did dig up a shoot and plant in my new yard. It was tiny but the leaves were glossy and healthy so my hopes were high.
It was painfully slow growing - we seemed to gain about 2 leaves a year. I was terrified it would be the victim of a lawnmower and checked on it time after time to see if it was still there. But blooms? None. Nada. Zilch. I began to wonder if there was such a thing as a male camelia and if I had unfortunately selected one of those. (No, Google tells me they are actually bisexual.)
I admit, I simply forgot about the non-bloomer. My hopes had been set on a shrub of glorious blooms like the one that shaded our side porch for decades in Seaboard.
But...
This morning when I walked out to get the newspapers I was despairing of the deep mud ruts at the edge of the road. Our driveway can't hold many additional cars, so guests are forced to park at the street. I was looking about to see if there was a way to fit an additional concrete slab and eyeing the yard.
To my utter disbelief, the Camellia had a bloom!After at least ten years of nothing! It was perched at a jaunty angle on a new branch, an explosion of color amidst the colorless winter landscape. And tucked underneath was a new bud! I photographed and showed mom, not daring to pick it's first bloom. We were elated! Despite the odds, when I had long ago given up hope, that little Camellia produced a glorious blossom.
What an astonishing message for the New Year. No matter how inadequate we may feel as we ring in 2019, there is always room for growth, always room for success. We can keep striving, keep growing - even when others have counted us out - or worse - we have counted ourselves out. Sometimes change is slow to appear. Sometimes we need life experience to help us grow. But we can grow - we can open ourselves to it - to be kinder, to be more patient, more generous, more compassionate. We can eat healthier, exercise more. We can volunteer to help others. We can try our hand at something new, or resurrect something old. And we can bloom! Right where we are planted!
So this year, be patient with yourselves. Be patient with the people, known and unknown in your lives. We are all growing, just not at the same speed. And we won't stop, can't stop, until our final blooms fall gently to the rich soil beneath us.
 |
| The NEW Camellia! |
