Remember those Moonflower seedlings?

I wrote about them here, as you can see they thrived! This picture makes me smile, today I see an elephant with his trunk reaching out for the front door handle. I have even caught tendrils creeping into the house. I am completely charmed by its presence. Two months ago I fretted at their fragile existence. A month ago I was encouraged as a single vine curled towards the sky. And last night we had the delight of watching three blooms open.

I had set a timer so that I would remember to go out an check on the buds. The buds seem to appear from nowhere, growing inches in a single afternoon, and you can start to predict if they will bloom that evening or not.

Every ten minutes the pup and I would go out to the front porch in the dusky light and check on the buds. We sat on the concrete steps and listened to the sounds of late summer and breathed the different air of approaching Fall. I could feel the familiar anxiety kick in my heart and the start of an adrenaline cascade in my body. We are two weeks away from the fourth anniversary of Justin’s death.  Anticipation of that date is the oddest thing, it arrives every September, building in intensity until the anniversary has passed.  I recognize it better this year, erratic sleep patterns, iffy appetite, a tendency just to stand and stare, brain fog, and tears.

Doug comes home just as I am muttering about losing daylight and not being able to capture the video of the Moonflower opening and he very kindly goes and gets out his film lights, such cool toys. My heart lifts several stories as there are few things that bring greater joy than working collaboratively on a project without planning or words, just seamless cooperation. He sets up lights on tripods and it made all the difference. There was no time to break out the video cameras, but I think my iPhone does a spectacular job of capturing the magical moment of the bud swirling open.

See the Moonflower Opening.

I think about how the gardens have responded to the towering maples being cut down, how devastated we were when told they would have to go. We miss our old friends, they shielded the house, provided shade and privacy. But I also see how the other plants have thrived with being allowed to see the sun and feel the rain. The roses are flourishing, even the hostas have never been prettier, you can almost hear the Moonflower vines sigh as they bask in the sun. The landscape has changed, but I find I prefer the change, the possibilities that change can bring. I am reminded of a workshop we attended that focused on Green Therapy, bringing our grief to nature and allowing the gifts of the earth to heal our mind and body, to play in the dirt and catch the rhythm of the seasons.

Those silky white pinwheels with their lime green starfish that swirl inside them glow all night long until the dawn, you only see them if you are in the darkness of night.  As beautiful as they are, I am not sure they would be as stunning in the light of day, they belong to the night, they don’t fear the dark. My mind wrestles and teeters on the edge of embracing a truth and reality of being called to live the dark night and the elusive beauty it holds. The mind can’t embrace it all, nor could the soul hold such a light until it had grown roots in darkness, grown vines to support buds. The understanding must be reached that one cannot pluck the bloom and bring it inside to enjoy in a vase, it withers, it cannot be grasped and held at whim and fancy, you must wait for those fleeting moments and be present to its beauty, let it fill your senses, and then let it go.