In today’s visit to the Cathedral of Nature, the morning raindrops were still on the elephant ears and roses in the garden.
When I first moved into my house, the former tenants had planted shrubs in the front garden, punctuated by elephant ears. Each leaf was wider than my chest and brought to mind some kind of ancient warrior’s shield.
They died out and were replaced by other plants over time, with thick ferns eventually taking over. In 2008, I hired a crew to clean out the jungle of a yard I’d acquired after years of too much overtime at the office, a back injury that side-lined my yard work, and a divorce that for a while left me unsure of whether to put any more energy into my physical property.
We planted knock-out roses in the front garden among a handful of remaining pruned shrubs. They bloomed beautifully throughout the autumn and into the winter. Then spring came and they bloomed even more.
To our surprise, elephant ears came up amid the roses as the weather warmed again, called to life again after a long hibernation.
And yes, that is a metaphor for my own resurgence.
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