I once told a friend that I believe God speaks peace to people in whatever way they personally can best feel: and that to me, He spoke Amaryllis. This was right after I’d had a bout of meningitis, it was the end of the summer, and I had an amaryllis plant that had been dying down for the season, as they do–and then all the sudden it had shot up a bud, against all odds. The stalk, usually two to three feet tall, never got longer than an inch, but the flowers were a full 8-9″ wide, blooming merrily upwards while I was sick, telling me I’d be okay. And so I was. (And probably the only patient on chemo who ever was disappointed to test negative for West Nile, thinking then I wouldn’t ever have had to worry about WN again. Having opened my front door about a month earlier to watch a beautiful little bird die at my feet on my entry mat, in a hot territory for that virus…)
Anyway. So I mentioned earlier on this blog that I’d staggered the start times on my collection to try to get them to bloom as late as possible into the year. Normally you start watering to break their dormancy in time for them to bloom at Christmas, but I waited all the way to February for a few of them, hoping the prolonged dry period wouldn’t kill them off.
I went in the garage today and discovered several pots that had somehow been misplaced. With little light, and with no water whatsoever for at least six months, two of them had buds shooting up. There’s no way! But they did.
This one’s for Nicholas. Who comes home tomorrow.