The hibiscus on my porch is a beautiful plant. Dark green leaves and compact habit, if that's the term. Means it grows in a dense and uniform shape. It is a bit unusual if blooming in two different colors is unusual for a hibiscus. I don't mean the blooms are bi-colored. Some of them are red and some of them are, well.... the color of the tassels on my uncle Floyd's huaraches if that helps.
It wasn't the colors of the flowers but the sheer number of them that struck me with one of those life lessons that do sometimes trip you up when you're not looking. The thing is blooming with the exuberance of a house on fire. Happens every year about this time. Not just the hibiscus on the porch but all the flowering plants in the gardens, in the fields, and along the tree lines from Chatsford Hall to Blowing Rock.
The reason for all the showy decadence is that the End is Near. That's right. Just look around you and you'll see that we/re up to our necks in Autumn. Ms Wonder calls it the season of mists and fruitful mellowness. I'm not sure why but thought I'd better mention it in case it means something to you.
Autumn brings the end of the growing season and the end of the blooming one as well. Every flowering plant knows that the gig is up. Playtime is over. Time to get serious about enriching those seeds so that someone or something is around in the springtime to remember summers past.
It's the same with the Genome. When I turn off the movies that play in my mind, I realize that not only has the autumn of the year arrived, but so has the Autumn of my Years. If I'm going to leave something behind to remind people of the summers spent with me, then I'd best get blooming, and not just a blossom here and there but a great profusion of blossoms, and I need to do it with the exuberance of a Bulldog puppy.
I'm fortunate to have robust health far in excess of what I deserve, considering my youthful revels. In addition, I'm blessed with an out-of-control amygdala, my own Princess Amy, who, taking a line through the Red Queen, exhorts me to accomplish more and more with her cry of, "Run faster!"
Years ago when apprenticed to Wen the Eternally Surprised--stop me if you've heard this one--I was sweeping the steps of the dojo and he, staring pensively into the western sky, said to me, "Sweeper..." (We didn't use reals names in the dojo.)
"Sweeper," he said, "it's a wide, wild, windy world we're riding through and we have to keep moving forward or the clouds will swallow us up and summers past will be like tear drops in the rain."
I'm happy to say that I've found my purpose. I only found it last Thursday at Carolina Beach when a huge wave came up from the deep--out of the blue as it were, and knocked me down and then rolled me around the sandy bottom for a while. And after the initial feeling that I was drowning and would die in about 5 seconds, I laughed at the thought that the sea had given me a pat on the back and "Attaboy!" When I stepped back onto the dry sand, I knew my purpose and I'm now prepared for that showy finale. Watch me bloom! Fierce Qigong!
"You seem a little depressed this afternoon," said a voice from somewhere on the screened porch.
I had abandoned the attempt to tidy-up a travel piece I'd written for Carolina Roads Magazine and I'd gone downstairs to raid the fridge. I was looking for a turmeric-ginger kombucha when I heard those words.
From where I stood, I couldn't see the owner of that musical voice, but I knew it belonged to the wonder-worker that I sometimes call, Poopsie, but who's formally known as Ms Wonder.
I remember thinking that she couldn't possibly see me from where she sat behind the fishnets and so I wondered how she'd guessed my mood. "What makes you say that?" I asked.
"I can tell by the sound of your footsteps," she said.
I marveled at hearing this. Could she really know my day was in the recycle bin by the way I walked? Or was this one of those stage tricks done with mirrors?
This mystery, if I can call it that, made me think of my Great-aunt, Arvazine, but for heaven's sake, let's not get into that now. It's a story for another day, and it's a story you don't want to miss so pay close attention to future posts.
"Low spirited?" she said.
I did a quick check-in with self to see if she was getting warm and found, to my surprise, that she was. And not merely warm but hot! I was low spirited! Damn, she's good! I wonder if she's ever considered a career on the stage?
I carried my glass of tissue restorer onto the porch where Wonder sat holding Olivia, who isn't a real octopus, of course. Once in her sight, the curtain raised on my own stage act and I went into my performance.
"One of these days, Alice!" I said making a fist and pushing it skyward. "One of these days, Pow! To the moon, Alice, to the moon!"
"That bad?" she said.
I considered the question. "Oh, I don't know," I said. "About average, I'd call it. Nothing on the level of wheat fields and profane love."
"I'm sorry," she said, "you've lost me. What do I know of wheat fields and profane love?"
"Ah, yes, there is that," I said. "Let me put it another way. Except for the names and a few other changes, my story's the same one."
There passed a few moments of silence while she directed a look my way that left me with that feeling you get when you're standing in the surf and the waves pull the sand from under your heels.
"You dream of being a king?" she said at last.
"No, not that story," I said. "The story I refer to is the one that goes, Pow! To the moon, Alice. That story."
"Alice in Wonderland?" she said.
"The Honeymooners," I said.
She shook her head the way she does sometimes after swimming. "I'm afraid I haven't had that pleasure. You confuse me."
"Did you say, You complete me?"
"Confuse me," she said.
"Ah!" I said with a nod.
I realize as I write this that you too may not be familiar with the reference. Don't feel bad. You aren't expected to recognize everything. Your head is full of other stuff.
The Honeymooners is something with no meaning for you because you weren't born in that period of television history. And I didn't really expect you to make the connection between wheat fields and profane love. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that you think profane love refers to phone sex.
Don't let it bother you. I'm just happy that you found me. I enjoy your company. In fact, in many ways, you complete me. And I'm happy to know that you helped make Coastal Camelot the all-time favorite post on this blog. I enjoy that one too.
If you haven't read it yet, you should do so now. You can come back to this post later. Find it in the Favorites column on the right-hand side of this webpage.
Now back to the regularly scheduled...
"You know the story, Wonder," I said. "It's the old one about the spoiled princess and the occasions that repeatedly bring one damned thing after another. Those occasions always stir up thoughts of, Pow! To the moon, Alice!"
"Of course it isn't really Alice in those day-to-day circumstances," I said. "It's the guy who ran me off the road as he checked his text messages. Or the person next to me who thought he had to yell into his mobile phone to be heard all the way to Greensboro."
"And so," I said, "except for the names and a few other changes, the story is still Pow! To the moon!"
She was giving me a different look now. It included what may have been the hint of a smile creasing the corners.
"You wear it well," she said.
"Thank you, Poopsie. I had a good teacher."
"I'm guessing that teacher would be Life, the Universe, and Everything," she said.
"That's right."
"Served you well, has it?" she said.
It was becoming a big day for exchanging looks. I gave her one now that consisted of a little smile and a couple of raised eyebrows. Looks say so much, don't you agree?
"Then keep on that path until your ribs squeak, is my advice," she said.
I laughed. She was quoting my stuff back to me and it suited her well I thought.
"You complete me, Wonder," I said.
"I know," she said.
So there you have it. Wonder completes me and, in your own quiet way, you complete me too. It feels good.
