Choosing to Bloom

Eight years ago, after one of many trips to Savannah, I decided to plant a Star Jasmine in the yard where I was living in Chesapeake. Star Jasmine flowers are appropriately shaped like a star, just as it might appear when it twinkles in the night sky. Officially known as Trachelospermum jasminoides, she is not native to this area. She prefers a temperate, sandy climate where she can sprawl along the walkways of my favorite Georgia river town, or along the ironwork in New Orleans. The Carolina Jasmine with larger yellow blossoms is what typically likes the mostly clay, temperamental Tidewater soil. Undaunted, I decided I could give her enough reasons to grow here that she would.

Convincing her to like the unforgiving heat in August was no problem. Though we like to argue that fact every summer, Virginia can’t compete with the level of humidity Georgia and Louisiana can throw at their local flora. So she flourished. But I babied her that first winter, making sure her roots stayed warm, checking on her to ensure her stems were still green at the bottom. When you’re used to constant sunshine exposure without the reprieve of so much as a sunhat, even the 40s at night can be detrimental to the likes of Jasmine. Alas, she made it through the first freeze and the continued hardening of her clay home. And the second. She was basically a miracle.

Then, I left Chesapeake, and I left her behind throughout an entire winter -- one during which I couldn’t fuss over her and throughout a spring I couldn’t rejoice over her continued survival. In June of 2016, my niece, Amber (my oldest brother’s youngest daughter) and I dug her up and drove her to Virginia Beach in the backseat of my sedan in a plastic garbage bag, vines and supports sticking out the window for all the world to see. I should mention we also had a bright orange kayak strapped to the top and stopped for cupcakes like the Clampetts making a pit stop on the way to Beverly Hills. Only a child who’s grown up with your specific brand of crazy would be completely unbothered by this experience. So, we indulged in our cupcakes, and planted Jasmine in the middle of the backyard that afternoon. Again, Jasmine thrived, taking over the deck railing as if she owned the joint and had always been the center of this particular world.

Last year, she decided to grow right through the lavender, making the lavender reach and stretch and beg for sunlight. Their tangle became so extreme, I finally had to separate them, like two kindergartners who can’t seem to figure out that there are indeed enough snacks to go around. Jasmine won that battle. But then, we decided to replace the deck Jasmine so mercilessly called home, the failing wooden structure she defended as if her very life depended on it. It was obvious that on the year she was the most beautiful, she would have to be moved to a sunny spot on the other side of the yard temporarily. Placed in an old metal wash tub against a fence that is falling down at best. We were promised two weeks. Then, two more. It turned out to be six months. I continued to check on her, but I was convinced that this was the last straw. She’d been through too much, asked to endure too many changes, shown an untold amount of disrespect (imagine what two little terriers can do to a ground plant,and you understand that she should’ve just been fed up with the entire operation). But I kept telling her how beautiful she was, what she added to the yard, how much I appreciated her consistency and her effort. Even still, when we replanted her on an unusually warm day this past winter, I didn’t expect much.

Spring got a slow start. I’m still not convinced she knows it’s her turn to play. The flowers that usually bloom in April didn’t show their faces until mid-May. I cleared a bunch of dead debris from around Jasmine and helped her wind her new growth up new deck columns. She already reaches the second floor, and we haven’t even begun her favorite season yet. Little white sprigs have been preparing themselves for a few weeks, leaves greening out all around her, making space for her grand debut. And this morning, on my routine tour of the flowers, there she was, open and standing proud, ready for the next adventure. She bloomed where she was planted. Again.

Many times over the course of the pandemic, I decried the soil I was planted in, frequently unable to see the sun for the clouds of change, asked to endure an untold amount of disrespect. I considered pulling up every available root and putting them down literally anywhere else. If I played my cards right, I reasoned, surely there would be cupcakes. But surprisingly, I made it through what felt like a year-long winter and began to check my stems for signs of green.

I found them.

I cleared away the debris and repositioned myself at the center of my world. Now it’s time to once again bloom where I’m planted. Sometimes, that’s the last thing you want to do. Even when you know it’s the right thing, the best thing, you’re still tired of just making the best out of clay, tired of creating your own sunshine when you think other gardens just come by it more naturally. Jasmine could be spreading her sweetness overtop southern archways, intoxicating passersby, or listening to jazz bands on street corners. Instead she shot right up where I asked her to and brought joy to my day. How could I not do the same?