You know it’s summer when the orange daylilies burst into bloom. These resilient flowers line the stone wall on both sides of our driveway, spill around the outdoor shower, and brighten roadsides and gardens throughout our village and beyond. They seem to announce that summer has truly arrived.
For me, these common orange daylilies are also a gentle reminder of how quickly the season passes. When they’re in full bloom, summer feels as though it’s hitting its stride. But almost as soon as the blossoms begin to fade, I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s words: “summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” Suddenly, the long, lazy days seem to be slipping away far too fast.
I have an old photograph of two of my children, ages nine and twelve, romping across the front lawn while the daylilies and other perennials lean toward them. It’s one of those seemingly inconsequential snapshots that has become permanently lodged in my memory, capturing the simple pleasures of summers long ago. The flowers are still here, faithfully returning each summer. The children, now in their thirties, come home whenever they can. But as we all know, neither gardens nor families can stop time.
Which brings me to this month’s gardening lesson. Not to dwell on the fleeting nature of summer, but to remind ourselves to be present for it – to notice the garden while it’s putting on its brief, spectacular show.
Just two weeks ago I was admiring our Japanese snowbell tree, its delicate, lightly fragrant, bell-shaped flowers dangling beneath the canopy like tiny white lanterns. I may have overlooked its bloom entirely last year because the display is so understated. Then, almost overnight, every blossom was gone. I actually walked past the tree wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing.
Gardens have a way of teaching us that beauty often arrives quietly and leaves just as quickly. If we’re not paying attention, we can miss some of the season’s finest moments. That’s reason enough to slow down, wander the garden a little longer, and savor whatever happens to be blooming today.
The same is true of the rhododendrons I gushed about in a recent column, the flowering quince in spring, and the fringe tree with its airy white blossoms. Every plant has its moment in the spotlight. That, after all, is the rhythm of a garden.
My friend Nancy says that’s exactly how she likes it. “I prefer the short, the fleeting, the precious,” she told me. “Not to be confused with Lord of the Rings.” She has a point. Who wants a plant hanging around long after its best days, like a Christmas tree still standing in February? As I eye my dwindling – but not quite finished – pansies, I’m already imagining what will fill the window boxes next. Change, after all, is invigorating.
So here we are in July. Drink it in. Be present. Gardening is one of the few pursuits that engages all the senses – the scent of lilies, the warmth of the sun, the hum of bees, birdsong in the trees, and the taste of that first sun-ripened tomato.
July should be the month of appreciation. Much of the planning and spring fussing is behind us. Even the weeds seem less offensive than they did in May. They certainly haven’t slowed down, but somehow, they’ve become part of the midsummer landscape. Some borders grow so lush and crowded that they remind me of the inscription on the Statue of Liberty: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” Every plant seems to be jostling for its own patch of sunlight.
Of course, I have a theory about weeds: the bigger they get, the easier they are to pull. Whether that’s wisdom or procrastination depends on whom you ask.
Whether you’re in the first act of your gardening season or well into the second, take time to enjoy what you’ve created. The work never really ends, but by July it settles into a gentler rhythm. There will always be deadheading, staking, watering, and yes, weeding. But there should also be time simply to wander.
My husband and I still dream up new projects, but we’re learning to pause and appreciate what’s already here. Last night’s rain forced us to move a small gathering into the greenhouse. It turned out to be the perfect vantage point. From there we watched rabbits at play, listened to the evening chorus of birds, and looked through the hedge toward the fruit trees and tomato cages. It struck me that we rarely experience the garden from that vantage point. One guest remarked that the view felt like something out of Alice in Wonderland. I chose not to ask whether that made me the Mad Hatter. Another friend thought she spotted bittersweet nightshade climbing through the hedge, so I have a little botanical detective work ahead of me. Gardens always offer something new to notice when you change your point of view. Perhaps that’s one of the greatest gifts a garden gives us. It teaches us to pay attention – not only to what is blooming, but to the fact that it won’t bloom forever.
“The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” – James Taylor.
The Seaside Gardener
By Laura McLean