Morning Glories

One of the morning glory photos
my daughter took for me in 2012

Yesterday I started some morning glory seeds inside so they could get a jump on growing during this unseasonably cold spring we're having.  It's too damp and cold to plant them out and I don't want to wait too long or they won't bloom till September.

I've grown morning glories each summer for the last dozen years or so.  They were in pots on my balcony when we lived in an apartment and now grow on the rustic trellises my daughter and I MacGyvered out of sticks one year and leaned against the side of the shed.

Morning glories are easy to grow and I love the old fashioned beauty of them.  Plus, the worse you treat them they more they bloom, which is pretty nice for those of us who find ours our dedication to garden care sometimes waxing and waining as the summer progresses.

For 11 of the past 12 years, I grew my morning glories from seeds, usually saved from the year before and planted out when the weather was warm enough.  The only exception was 2012, the year I was first diagnosed with cancer.

That year, instead of growing them from seeds, I ended up buying a little flat of overgrown morning glories from a local garden center and stuck them into the ground between diagnosis and surgery.  As I recall, that year I had tried a few times to put some seeds in the ground between worry and uncertainty, but with so much rain and cool weather the seeds kept rotting in the dirt before they could take root.  With surgery looming and no morning glories in sight, I ran out of time and took what I could find so I could just have something--anything--that looked familiar growing outside my window that year.

I was so glad for that little flat of morning glories when I was recovering from surgery through June and July and dealing with chemo from July through October (well, no morning glories after the hard frosts in October, but you get the idea).  A lot of that time is a blur for me, but I remember distinctly asking my daughter to go out and take some pictures of the blooming flowers so I could look at them close up without having to go out there myself (I have to think that was after surgery because I was working part-time during chemo and, while not in fighting form, I should have been able to make it far enough to look without too much trouble.  But, as I said, details from that summer are a little hazy now).

Most years my flower garden is something I enjoy plotting out in the winter, starting from seed indoors in early spring, and planting out with care when May comes around.  I'm no expert by a long shot and things don't always work out, but I get a kick out of working on it and it makes my happy.  I even used to blog about my gardening trials and errors in those days before cancer (with actual readers, too--who knew other people would want to watch my seedlings grow?).  In 2012, by contrast, my flower garden consisted of the morning glories, some scattered marigold seeds, the 2 perennials I had planted in years past and the 3 random perennials that I grabbed from a plant sale right before surgery and shoved into the ground at the last minute so the dirt would have something in it besides weeds.

My mantra during 2012, with all the aggressive treatment aiming for a cure, was "next year."  Everything that was left undone, everything that was unpleasant, everything that made me sad, everything I wanted to do but wasn't up to doing that year was made a little better by remembering I could do it "next year."

Now it's two years later, and this year we're again dealing with a cool, damp spring.  I'm being good and babying my hip, but this year I'm not willing to wait until "next year," not if I can help it.

So now I have seedlings growing on my window sill, some purchased lobelia and dusty miller in the ground, and some bachelor button seeds scattered over soil in just the spot where I've planned them to be.  Those morning glory seeds are on my dining table, swelling up and getting ready to push up leaves and send down roots so they'll be ready to plant when the weather's right.  I'm not willing to put it off for "next year" when I have the chance to make it work now.

Pieces of my garden this year

I've become a bit obsessive about making this garden, this year, as lovely as I can.  I'm picturing a summer with days off spent sitting, reading, and drinking lemonade in the garden.  I want a place where I will spend some time smelling the evening fragrance of nicotiana and moonflower while dining with my loved ones on food from the grill and then toasting marshmallows while watching for fireflies and looking at the stars.

Goodness knows I'm no Martha Stewart, and I know full well there will be some (many) unexpected kinks preventing this from being a summer of utter and complete perfection.  I can live with that, but I just don't want it to be because I didn't try.  Not this year.

I  know not a single one of us really know what the future holds.  None of us know what the next year will bring, assuming we are even here when comes.  And I have to think sometimes that's a mercy.

But recent events, obviously, have helped give that abstract knowledge a hefty new reality.

So this year there will be morning glories.  There will be the deep purple nicotiana I love so much and the "broken plate" 4 o'clocks I've been meaning to grow.  There will be zinnias on the sunny side like my grandma used to love, but mine will be both solid and candy striped, because I think they look so pretty that way.  There will be the pot of pretty pink half-double petunia plants I started last month from the seeds I ordered last year but never bothered to plant.  In 2013 I thought it was no big deal, I'd plant those crazy petunias "next year."  Now it seems foolish to wait.

I know there may be dozens of "next years" given to me, and hopefully many "next years" where I feel great and put in every favorite flower I've ever had and some new favorites yet to be discovered.  But those years to come aren't certain.  What I do know is that this year is going to be beautiful because God has granted me enough health now to feel good enough to make it so, and I'm not willing to put it off to an uncertain future when I have the health to make it happen today.