Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

A small orchid garden sits above my kitchen sink, with half-a-dozen potted gifts from clients and friends. After all, who doesn’t love Trader Joe’s floral department for a last-minute present? The collection I’ve assembled is pretty broad in terms of color, size, and species — especially since I got them all for free.

Most of them bloomed last year, and have just been dwelling happily, if dormantly, in their sunny window sill. They accept their weekly watering, and I try to fend off the ant colony invasions as they come. They are quiet. They are not showy. Without flowers, they are a bit of an eyesore with their long scraggly leaves and lumpy, bumpy root systems.

About two months ago, one of the more exotic and strange orchids in my collection sent out a shoot covered in buds. It’d been nearly a year since the countertop garden had sported any flowers, so we were all excited to see the branch come to life. It reached tall — over 2 feet high and straight up in the air — and was soon peppered with 17 buds just ready to burst.

Within two weeks, the buds exploded into a cascade of fairy dresses, and I don’t think it’d be too dramatic to say that it made that corner of the kitchen very magical indeed. I gazed at them as I washed the dishes. I tilted the pot to and fro to get the best view of the blooms from day to day. And then, one by one, within the span of about 10 days, the flowers all…

Well…

They all died. Just like that — they burst into being, and then burned out just as quickly. The stems refused to shake themselves loose. In the end, I had to snip off the glorious stem at the base and put the whole plant back into hibernation until next February.

At the same time, another plant in the back corner of the shelf was quietly sending out its own growth. The nursery on the smaller, squatter plant drew less attention, and it developed slowly. It was so gradual, in fact, that I didn’t notice the new stem until its buds began to form. One morning, while doing the dishes and bemoaning the fate of our last 3 or 4 flashy flowers, I noticed the new branch and pulled the pot toward the sink. The span was much smaller, reaching only 8 or so inches long and thrusting out horizontally. It was much more unassuming than the first.

For its size, the plant appeared overladen with life. I counted carefully — 17 buds. An identical crop to its flashy cousin. Four baby arms branched off from the main stem, extending its growing potential front-to-back and side-to-side. Each of the offshoots birthed 2 or 3 buds as well, compactly spaced to conserve energy and share resources. I watched the new plant, and waited.

And, I waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, weeks later, the first buds swelled with promise. I mentioned it to people in passing, expecting the same dramatic blooming as the speckled orchid — fast, furious, and fatal. Instead, I waited. And waited.

One day, the largest of the buds opened up its little mouth, as if to murmur an unceremonious “Huh.” The next night, I noticed that a petal — one little hand — was beginning to unfold. Would you believe that it was nearly a week before the entire bloom had opened and could collect sun for its sisters? And so it went, painfully, ploddingly…

…perfectly.

We get a new bloom now once a week or so. Some of the flowers are hidden, packed in tightly as they are, and they contribute more to an overall effect than the first orchid did. That orchid was a chorus of soloists, each vying for attention and straining for the sky. These flowers, though, perform as a choir — a billowy stretch of petals and stamens that harmonizes as a whole. The flowers are hardy, enduring, and strong. They will last up to two or three months, if I tend them well, and when they finally decide that they are done, they will shrivel only a little — like a sigh — and fall asleep.

This is a good reminder to me, as I reach the third month of these lifestyle changes and begin to lose stamina and enthusiasm. Generally, I prefer to take my time and patiently wait for an end product which will be satisfying, if not dramatic. Showy and flashy changes are enticing, but I don’t need to drop 5, 8, or 12 pounds a week. I need to learn to nurture and nourish myself in a healthy, sane way. I need to make changes that will last, not flame out and die within the first few weeks.

Yes, I could cut more calories. I could add in a radical exercise regimen and drink “meal shakes” and subsist on saltine crackers and, yes, that would help me lose weight faster. I might get more attention. I might have all sorts of crises of identity and health as well.

But, as it turns out, the kinds of changes that work for me are small, incremental, gradual, and painfully slow. They may occur without anyone noticing at all. But quietly, surely, they are building a new me. They are incubating new growth. They will be, I believe, more lasting in the end.

This entry was posted Wednesday, March 14th, 2007 at 2:53 pm and is filed under Metaphysical. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.