It’s June and I haven’t seen a flower yet. Last year’s photos have date-stamped three luscious raspberry-colored blooms on May 30. I study the intricate web of vines on the trellis intently, spotting a rash of drooping buds. I trace the source to a dead branch, mourning all the lost beauty this late-stage miscarriage steals from my world.
In my quest to autopsy an inexplicable passing, I’m now
analyzing the entire clematis network. The three, maybe four, distinct plants
at the base are hopelessly knotted together at the top. Wasn’t it just
yesterday that I was diligently training the new growth to map across the width
of the trellis for an even display? I begin to question whether the spectacular
show of red, pink, and purple flowers I am eagerly anticipating will
materialize. Maybe they are strangling each other due to my neglect?
Early in the season I always think I can manage the canvas,
winding tender strands in and out of the trellis face, ensuring they find a structure
to hold onto, but they move with the speed of curious toddlers, off exploring the
world around them if you look away for a second. A whispered reprimand echoes
in my head: “If only I had stayed on top of it . . .”
The vines have surpassed the height of the trellis, winding
around each other, flopping over on themselves, branches ready to shear from
their own weight. He says they’re reaching for the sun. The canopy of our seasoned maple tree shades
the trellis now and the vines are searching for the light. I climb a step
ladder, a spool of fishing line and a pair of pruning shears in my hand. My
strategy is to separate the tangled vines, push them over the top of the
trellis and anchor them with fishing line so they’ll
continue to grow down the other side.
But the unwinding is not meant to be. These tiny shoots that
appear so fragile sprout with a mighty coiling system cleaving them to their
closest neighbors, whether that’s the rope on the bird house, the
chain link of the pendant light swinging from the end of the trellis, or the
vine next door.
He suggests I cut back the straining vines before they break
and I am faced with grieving more buds that will never bloom. This is probably the
right answer, and at the same time it pains me, until I consider the stem in a
vase of water and the possibility of an indoor show.
I swear under my breadth in a resigned surrender; somewhat
embarrassed to find myself in yet another situation I was certain I could
control, the last one to realize it was never up to me in the first place. Like
all of us, everything they need to thrive is already within them. We just need to let them find their way, and sit back and marvel at the beauty and wonder they bring to the world.
