Lessons in Tenacity

When it comes to survival, our cultivated gardens and the wilder nature around us can, if we watch for them, provide many lessons in hanging on.  I was reminded of that this week when I passed by this incredibly tenacious tree, seemingly growing out of the bedrock.  It stands on the edge of a ridge leading from my backyard to the pond.    The primeval seabed of the Flint Hills is exposed by erosion and time on these ridges and, in places, the rock itself becomes porous with holes as the lichens eat them away.  Often, those holes become pots for the germination of wind-blown plants who trade the inconveniences of the cramped position for protection from prairie fires.  This tree has been growing here for a decade, untouched by fire after fire, until it has now filled the hole that birthed it.

I feel, in this time of quarantine, a kinship with this tree, a bond forged by the urge of life to grow and expand despite the constraints around it.  My adherence to stay-at-home edicts from local "authorities"  suffers from both my lack of paranoia about catching the virus and my lack of faith in those authorities.  I do wear a mask in public, despite knowing the science and all-the-time wondering why I bother.  Running "crucial" errands, the number of which expands exponentially with my cabin fever, I often think of the quote on my office refrigerator at work, purportedly from Marilyn Monroe, which reads "Ever notice that 'what the hell' is always the right answer?"  Yes, I recognize that subscribing to guidance from a woman who tragically passed away in the fullness of life may not be the wisest choice. It is, however, more satisfying, and soul-serving than listening to nonstop gloom and doom from the news.  

Yes, I'm running risks daily, but I, like this tree, know instinctively that every day of life brings risks that we must face in order to flourish.  A deep core of fatalism helps me in that regard. I might catch coronavirus today and die next week. I might also get broadsided by a semi-truck on my way home from work.  Neither is really that likely.  I've watched this tree, an elm, grow for years, steadfast in the face of wind, fire and storm.  To have grown this tall, this broad, it must already have once pierced completely through this layer of rock, allowing the roots to reach more fertile soil around it.  Now it faces another challenge and I'm intrigued by what happens next for it.  Will the tree die, girdled by the constraints of its environment?  Will the rock yield, split or dissolved by the irrepressible forces of life? 

Time will tell, both for the tree and for us.  Will we wither now, paralyzed by fear of the world outside our holes, or will we grow on, breaking the barriers and pushing against the sky?  Me, I'm betting on life and the spirit of this tree.  Staying in the hole is not an option.  

Oh, Mr. DeMille?

Mr. DeMille, Mr. DeMille, I think I'm ready for my closeup!  I've been working so hard, putting on my colors, filling in gaps, and studying the lines for my part.  I think my left side is the best, don't you?  

Closeup photography of flowers is always rewarding, but simultaneously a technically-demanding exercise and yet sometimes not so.  I'm fully aware that to get the best pictures, they must be carefully framed and set, requiring tripods and lighting and perfect flowers.  But even rank amateurs, like myself, can see some fascinating sights at a macro level with a handheld camera, a complete different world from the normal eye's view at shoulder height three feet from the flower.     

Take the lily to the right, above, for instance.  I understand the hierarchy of pistil over stamens, the multiple brown pollens of the anthers vying to attach themselves first to the sticky stigma.  But who makes the spidery minuscule webs that I find in most flowers?  Are the inhabitants still there, hiding, or long gone?  Is the purpose of those filaments to trap infinitesimal insects that I wouldn't even have dreamed existed?  Or are they insect equivalents of the debris left behind at a human campsite?

And then the softer, cumulus-cloudy nature of the anthers of Hibiscus 'Blue Bird', show here from its right side.  I've read that the structure here depends on bird (hummingbird) pollination.  The bird approaches from the front, bumping its head on the stigma and then, further in, it must reach past the anthers to get the nectar prize, in the process covering its head in pollen.  Then, at the next flower, the pollen from one is transferred to the stigma of the next, and so on, and so on.

The vivid contrasts of Hibicus syriacus 'Red Heart' are best viewed at close quarters.  In this cultivar, the brilliant purple-red at the base of the cream-hued sex organs make a bullseye that any hunter could recognize and that the hummingbird will hone in on.

There are things to say, as well, for the mid-range closeups, the photos that don't threaten to show the pores and blemishes of the photogenic stars, but that show the composition, the lines of beauty, the blends of color.  Marilyn Monroe reclining gracefully and suggestively on the chaste lounge.  Natalie Woods splendid in the grass.  Simply composed, the sweet clustering of the Bailey rose 'Sweet Fragrance' can match the beauty of those iconic stars.   

In your own garden, don't forget as you snap photos of the scenery, you should also photograph the individuals, and, deeper, even their pieces and parts, because beauty will be found at all levels, in all plants and in all gardens.