A lilac in October. The tight purple blooms hold fast against the impending cold weather as leaves change color, dry, and wander away in a crisp wind.
Spring. Vivid, bright, and refreshing, we kiss the sky and sun on the cusp of a great change in New England. Nearly driven to tears by the relief that winter is over, we hold onto hope as the gentle crocus emerges from a patch of wet leaves.
Daffodils, tulips, Easter lilies fill our gardens with sweet smells of the good life.
There’s no doubt as to how powerful the blossoms of spring lead us full sprint into summer. Left to relish in the hot days and beautiful nights, our plants adore the chance to show what they’re made of. At Little Pond, tiny buds emerge among birch branches, and the grass reaches new heights as the lawn grows un-mowed and free.
Through this wild grass, the milkweed rears her proud face. Fierce in her push through the ground, she grows mighty in the hope to attract the monarch, a gardener’s treasure, a child’s sweet little painted birthday balloon of orange and black to chase around as the summer days wain.
Delighted by the newest member of our meadow, we monitored our milkweed every single day. Taller she grew, broader she spread, and in one amazing moment, we saw the fat monarch caterpillar! A chance only dreamt of! But to live it? Unreal. Magical. A wizard’s conjuring perhaps. How can we be so lucky?
As sunset neared, and our old dog headed home, we promised to return the next day, and we wished our dear friend a good evening.
The next morning, camera in hand, we returned. Walking by Little Pond and up to the darker path where the milkweed stood, our hearts went unfulfilled at the sight of the empty leaves. No monarch caterpillar.
“Maybe she’s sleeping?”
Shrugged shoulders and an empty camera lead us home. Skunked.
We decided to give our search a rest and focus on our front garden.
Back to our lilac.
Purchased years ago as a gift, the little bush bloomed only once in four years. As for this beautiful summer, something was amiss. Upon closer inspection, tiny webs wrapped their way around the lowest branches. Unruffled, the lilac grew on.
The milkweed, however, did not. When we returned, we saw webs of new caterpillars. In a moment of pure gut-feeling, we knew these were not the gentle eaters we hoped for.
The Tussock Moth, also known as the “Tiger Milkweed Moth” decimated our milkweed, leaving a shell of the plant we had such hope for.
Not all battles, however, are lost.
Our dear lilac, under attack by a more elusive foe, pushed back.
Clearing her head of the detritus that once were her most wonderful branches, the carefully removed dead pieces drew her energy inward, to the core, where all life force grows.
She held closer to herself, like any of us under attack.
Unfettered by her near loss, undeterred by the looming darker days and colder nights, she pushed on.
A lilac in October. While we hope for our milkweed to return next summer, our lilac has her own plans.
One sunny October day, when the cosmos called for dead-heading in hopes of a natural re-seed, the lilac revealed a surprise.
From under her once gloomy branches and shriveling leaves, one beautiful flower has emerged.
It is not large like a daisy, not small like a violet. It is shamelessly and heroically itself. Admiration. Adoration. An idealist’s true vision of simply being right all along. Victory, how sweet it is. Thank you, dear lilac, for showing what resilience is all about.
