As Spring came into being, I was thrilled to see “spicy oregano” emerge in my tiny garden from last year. Three Asiatic lilies had popped to nearly 3 inches of new growth and a small hydrangea returned taller and wider than before winter. The garden itself is but a patch that brings a steady stream of joy over the summer.
Seeing the return of the spicy oregano in such abundance, I offered some to a dear neighbor to toss into sauce or a summer salad.
When I went to the patch, I was startled to see that the mound of oregano was no longer there. I turned around to see barren ground where the lilies, hydrangea and bluebells had begun to rise from their winter sojourn.
What happened? The plants were gone! What I expected to see was no longer there. It was a weird moment of sudden absence. Everything that was growing there yesterday had vanished.
Yes, rabbits were the culprits!
It didn’t matter much who the thieving rascals were. What did strike me was the sudden absence of what I expected, knew and anticipated.
That brief moment of shock resurrected a memory of driving up a dirt road that led to my home in the country, 41 years ago. I was so glad to be coming home from a long day at work. The house I’d left in the morning, was gone. Fire had gobbled everything. Charred pages of books adorned the lawn and burnt bushes.
What I knew would be there, as it had been for years, was gone.
There are countless times when we return to a place, a person or an object we’d known, to discover that what we expected is either gone or considerably changed. It is then that we hold the present close, because it will not be the same tomorrow.
Excellent blog and very timely as we enter the (almost) post covid world.