San Francisco, California
Day 58: Happy Campers
This black-eyed susan vine (Thunbergia alata) started out as a seedling gift passed over the fence when the patio first went in. It’s easy to grow, our neighbor assured me, and he was right. This cheerful vine (also known as Clock Vine) climbs up, around and over the stair railing to form the backdrop to our garden. Along with the rosemary I use as hedge, the vine helps to hide our potting table and various messy shovels and brooms (it will climb over nearby ceramic pots, rose bushes, and jade, and fern, and aloe, too, if I don’t keep it in check). When winter comes and it begins to grow less quickly and bloom more sparsely, l cut the vine back nearly to the ground and let it start the trajectory upward once again, come spring. After three years of continual bloom, I think I can say with certainty, these flowers are truly happy here.
Lest anyone worry about my state of mind after yesterday’s post, I want to say that I am a happy camper, too. Our home and the garden, in particular, is a refuge and a balm, my husband a great companion. As concerned as I am about the state of the world, I thank my lucky stars that I am planted here. It's just that I have come to believe the more cautious experts who say that this will last much longer than we want to think - probably years - and being older and somewhat compromised in health, it means that I cannot take my life and time for granted and, if I want to survive, I dare not leave this place as long as the danger lasts.
We all slow down as we get older. I know it’s true for me. Before the virus hit, John and I had already felt our lifelong travel itches wane. Our itinerary, for the most part, had narrowed to occasional jaunts into the countryside and a few flights to see family and old friends. But staying home, sitting in this garden was our choice then. I think that makes a difference.
We all die, too, a fact harder to ignore as we get older and impairments mount. Both John and I have issues enough between us to joke about how long we have and which of us will check out first. But is a casualty of poor leadership the way we want to go? I think that makes a difference, too.
Still. Life goes on. Spring passes. Vines grow. The very cheerfulness of these flowers is contagious and I can tell you without a doubt this morning - I feel content (and lucky) to be here.