Unexpected beauty
It’s a small space, maybe a foot square, between the garden shed and the stone wall, shaded by the branches of the honeysuckle and a towering black walnut. At one time, before the honeysuckle and the black walnut, there was a lovely lilac there that grew up beside the shed and the neighbor’s fence. Its color and scent filled the window of our family room with springtime, but, as often happens and for reasons that I don’t understand, the lilac passed on to wherever it is that lilacs go.
For many years I swept the leaves that fell from the trees and deposited the weeds that I’d picked from a nearby garden bed into that space. It became a passing place without thought. It could be seen but not appreciated. It was a dark place devoid of significance or consequence.
Without plan or fanfare, my square foot between the shed and stone became something else.
The year before, I’d pushed some Hosta cuttings into the accumulate mire, thinking they were of the same ilk as the leaves and weeds. This summer, they not only grew but flourished, sending up lush and dark with variegated leaves. Around the edges of the Hostas, a few Lamium had made their way across the path and settled in while a wild red raspberry bramble tumbled down the side of the stones adding a halo of leaves and tiny flowers … a gift from a passing bird.
This small, unheralded spot had become one of the best in the garden. I’d done little, if anything, to make it so. Nevertheless, it existed. It shimmered with the kind of beauty that you see in magazines with possibilities for more … perhaps I could add some pink astilbe, an ornament, something to catch the light that filtered through the honeysuckle.
It surprised me, since the rest of my garden was suffering in the summer’s heat.
Across the path, the assertive, three-foot-tall spikes of mint were being decimated by some unknown pathogen.
The years of debris had become a rich compost that provided the ragtag Hosta “leave-offs” with sustenance to live in what could only be described as garden glory. The volunteer Lamium with its variegated leaves and purple flowers joined, without my intervention, as did the brambles that grew from bird-dropped seeds.
A simple sermon emanated from this little shady garden corner. We often prepare without guile or plan, unaware of the possibilities of our actions … our unintended consequences can be dreadful or lovely.
Next to my shed and the garden wall, the consequences were enchanting.
I’m now wondering what is happening to the small storeroom in my basement, where I’ve put the household equivalent of weeds and leaves for years.
Ann Ferro is a mother, a grandmother and a retired social studies teacher. While still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up, she lives in Marcellus with lots of books, a spouse and a large orange cat.
