My ex-father-in-law used to grumble on the 4th of July. “Summer’s almost over,” he’d grouse, even before his first tomato had ripened. I’m beginning to understand his angst. I’ve been waiting since March for my garden’s hard-earned blossoms to arrive - reward for all the rocks and stones unearthed, the research and planning done - but as each bud emerges, I begin to regret how fast it will be gone.
This is where I am these days. I wake in the mornings excited about the work and the rewards not only in the garden, but in our new place, our new life. I am impatient to see what’s coming next - old and new friends to visit, country drives to take, local fare to try, more blossoms yet to come. At the same time, I want the clock to stop completely, freeze in this very moment, as I sit out on the porch at midday, watching the trees sway gently, listening to the bees and birds.
This, perhaps, is going to be for me a decade of sweet contentment and inevitable regret. The sense of urgency is palpable as I approach my 71st birthday and the limitations to my lifespan become ever less abstract. How much time do I have left? Will I live to see the weeping willow grow, the hydrangea reach full width and height? Will I watch my grandsons graduate from high school? Will I take just one more trip to China or to Rome?
I know that it will take time for my garden to get established, the plants to settle in, and sometimes I’m content in just the beauty that they offer me today. I feel lucky. It is more than enough. But then I am reminded that next summer’s blossoms will be more plentiful and spectacular (if I’m still here) and it’s very hard to wait.