The four o'clocks are blooming today, though the morning temperature barely clears 45 degrees. In other places, other gardens, my four o'clocks bloomed in the height of summer, opening to scent the air only when evening breezes cooled the air a bit. In that sense, I suppose it's natural for them to bloom in the chill of the early fall morning. The fuchsia and butter-yellow flowers sparkle amid a few golden cosmos, a lone russet marigold, and the dying greenery of some tiger lilies. The flower bed, encircling an old cottonwood tree, is spotty and quite amateurish . . .and to me, beautiful all the same. Even the fact that those flowers didn't bloom until just now, a few weeks before frost, doesn't bother me. Actually, several spots of late-season pinks, purples and golds brighten the yard as I shuffle my children off to school and load my work bag into the car. Our summer warmed so slowly this year, and offered only about six weeks of heat and humidity; I'm grateful that I have flowers at all.
The Japanese have a philosophy -- wabi-sabi -- that celebrates the beauty of imperfection. My front yard, littered with a red wagon, some branches of fallen cottonwood leaves, and several bikes and scooters, would never merit a picture in a magazine. The flower beds bloom haphazardly, and sometimes the blue flax threatens to take over everything. I have roughly the same amount of grass as I have of weeds, and the entire space lacks the green uniformity of a manicured city lawn.
But as I arrive home after a long day, my eyes don't see the yellow spots, or the weeds growing along the fence: my eyes take in the moss roses that have finally spilled over the edge of the hanging baskets, framing the front door in color. I see Emily and Katie spilling out of that front door, eager to tell me about their spelling tests and who played with who at recess. I see Shawn circling a colt in the round pen, and the horse's smooth chocolate-bay coat shimmers in the early evening light.
September for so much of my life has been about success: pursuing perfection in school and on my job, to the point of reaching such stress I miss the beauty of the season. And yet, September is my favorite month, because the natural world reaches a fullness, a peak of achievement that perches for a few short weeks before the letting go, the decline into a natural death. The achievement, like the late blooming of the four o'clocks, does not necessarily reach perfection; and yet, it is enough.
I'm questioning myself professionally and personally this month, wondering if I'll ever reach that point of feeling worthy to celebrate my accomplishments; wondering if I'll ever feel my work is worthy to put into public. But it seems silly to question all my efforts, to hide my foibles and flaws, when all around me the world is celebrating itself just as it is. Those four o'clocks didn't realize that their prescribed bloom time should have been a month ago; they are showing themselves off nevertheless, for as long as they have.
Would that I could do the same.
