gardener’s journal

On this dreary late winter day, I have a pot of Azalea blooming gloriously in the house. I don’t know how long it has been blooming, as we had been out of town for two weeks. But there it is, covered in pink cloud, in quiet exuberance, without anyone’s admiring cheers, as if it knows what the best gift is for a wintry day and a welcome home.

Azalea in February. What a treat to one’s senses and a lift to the tired psyche. It feels like the kindness of a stranger in time of need. I am touched by its generosity.

I bought this azalea two years ago this time of year. A 6-inch pot covered with pale pink petals each with a red-spotted throat. It was your garden variety late spring azalea, forced by a greenhouse precisely for the reason I bought it, to have a splash of color in a long, drawn out spring. It bloomed for four weeks.

After the petals fell, I considered discarding it. But I decided to pot it instead and see if I could duplicate its glory next year. Since I had no experience with indoor azalea and was not optimistic, I stuck it in the worst possible spot in the whole house, right next to the heat vent, all the other space being taken up by various pots of geraniums salvaged from autumn’s frost. When our 6-year-old complained that the plants were encroaching on his seat at the table, I informed him that, like his sibling, the plants had as much claim to the space as he did. But I moved the azalea even closer to the heat vent. Almost on top.

It endured all kinds of neglect and mistreatment, but never complained.

I watered erratically, sometimes only when the leaves drooped. I spent all my time coaxing the prima donnas – the gardenias – to live to see outdoor warmth, hunched over to clean away mealy worms with Q-tips, and giving the plants showers in the bathroom, and to the exasperation of my husband, clogging up the drain.

Still the gardenias wilted and the azalea never has any problem with bugs. It does not even shed too much.

I feel rather guilty sometimes for the neglect it suffers, much like a parent feels for a child when she has to devote most of her energy to a more demanding sibling.

Still, the azalea thrived. It had two blooms the next spring. The color was not as intense as it was fresh from the store. I suspect that was due to the lack of sunlight since it never saw any throughout winter. But what beautiful color it was! The palest shade of pink, most exquisite , delicate and tender, a startling contrast to the outdoor gloom. It lasted for four weeks, the length of which impressed me. By summer’s end, I thought I would put it in the ground this time. But remembering its quiet delicacy and ease of care, I brought it back in and left it on top of the heat vent. I did take to watering it with my husband’s left-over coffee, not because I thought it might nurture it, but because I did not want to see the coffee going to waste. Apparently, the azalea did not mind as is evident by the profusion of blooms this year. I counted 120 blossoms on a 19-inch plant.

I am flattered by its generosity, the gratitude heightened by the inadequacy of the care it has received throughout the year. I am also moved by its resilience. Something that asks so little gives so much. Something that can not only survive but thrive. Isn’t this a lesson of life? Isn’t this the humble embodiment of our spirit? Isn’t this why we keep plants around?