I took this photo of one of the hydrangeas on the lone hydrangea bush that survived my prune-a-thon when we first bought our home back in July of '07. I had no idea that I was whacking away at one of my favorite flowering plants. I think I might adore hydrangeas even more than my oft beloved tulips.
As we were walking back into the house from collecting Geronimo after our first [failed] attempt at walking him, I happened to notice that the plump hydrangea blooms were blushing. Yes, they really were beginning to blush. The most amazing pale and hot pinks were just beginning to spread over the hundreds of tiny petals.
We had two tiny blooms in September of '07 and they were both solid white. There were only scarcely more blooms last year and not nearly as healthy as this year's. Like the blooms from the late summer of '07, all of them were white.
This year, my hydrangea plant, despite being hacked to death by a mad woman with a black thumb, has a few more blooms yet, and they are beautiful. Lush, heavy with petals and starting to blush and turn into something so beautiful I can not find the words to give weight to the heaviness of how truly gorgeous they are. The above and below pictures barely do them justice.
This year, my hydrangea plant, despite being hacked to death by a mad woman with a black thumb, has a few more blooms yet, and they are beautiful. Lush, heavy with petals and starting to blush and turn into something so beautiful I can not find the words to give weight to the heaviness of how truly gorgeous they are. The above and below pictures barely do them justice.
In many ways, these flowers are symbolic of so many things in my life right now.
It's hard to believe that they survived very nearly being pruned to death by someone who didn't have a clue in hell as to what the plant was, or what she was doing to it. I've no doubt that it was healthy and thick with a bounty of blossoms to offer in the years before I discovered it. Now, here it is, on the rebound, healthy and lovely. I look at it and see the same things I want to see in myself.
The hydrangea has survived a lot. It survives a lot. It goes through winters when it's buried under mounds of frozen white snow and crystal clear ice. It's pounded by the angry winds of winter Nor'easters and then pelted by the relentless rain of early spring storms only to have to suffer through the heat and humidity of New England summers. Most importantly, it survived my abuse. OK, so it wasn't intentional, but I almost killed it. Yet here it stands, in all it's amazing glory, blessing me with it's most exquisite presence, like some sort of beacon in having faith that what once was, can be again.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and am instantly repulsed by what I see...by what I've become, what I've let myself become. If I don't cover the mirror, I end up sticking my finger down my throat and trying to bring up some of the ugliness from inside.
In the end, it doesn't work. It just makes the ugliness even worse. In the end I should look back at my hydrangeas and realize it takes time, but eventually the beauty that's always there resurfaces. It isn't forced or hastened. With time it comes.
When I noticed the blush I thought to myself how nice it would be to walk by a mirror one day and catch the same sort of beautiful blush...something I wasn't expecting but was amazed and happy to see.
I really hope it's still in there and that I haven't damaged myself so badly that it's impossible to resurrect myself and catch my own beautiful blush.
It's hard to believe that they survived very nearly being pruned to death by someone who didn't have a clue in hell as to what the plant was, or what she was doing to it. I've no doubt that it was healthy and thick with a bounty of blossoms to offer in the years before I discovered it. Now, here it is, on the rebound, healthy and lovely. I look at it and see the same things I want to see in myself.
The hydrangea has survived a lot. It survives a lot. It goes through winters when it's buried under mounds of frozen white snow and crystal clear ice. It's pounded by the angry winds of winter Nor'easters and then pelted by the relentless rain of early spring storms only to have to suffer through the heat and humidity of New England summers. Most importantly, it survived my abuse. OK, so it wasn't intentional, but I almost killed it. Yet here it stands, in all it's amazing glory, blessing me with it's most exquisite presence, like some sort of beacon in having faith that what once was, can be again.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and am instantly repulsed by what I see...by what I've become, what I've let myself become. If I don't cover the mirror, I end up sticking my finger down my throat and trying to bring up some of the ugliness from inside.
In the end, it doesn't work. It just makes the ugliness even worse. In the end I should look back at my hydrangeas and realize it takes time, but eventually the beauty that's always there resurfaces. It isn't forced or hastened. With time it comes.
When I noticed the blush I thought to myself how nice it would be to walk by a mirror one day and catch the same sort of beautiful blush...something I wasn't expecting but was amazed and happy to see.
I really hope it's still in there and that I haven't damaged myself so badly that it's impossible to resurrect myself and catch my own beautiful blush.
