I want to tell you about
the pumpkin plant which our neighbor bequeathed to us this past Spring …
How we planted it in the bed
by the patio where nothing seems to grow ... or rather, grows but is
immediately eaten by roving bands of marauding rabbits … so we put a cage around it –
the plant, not a rabbit – until it billowed out through the wire squares and
then with breath held we released it to the wilds (which is to say, our
backyard with ground squirrels, voles, robins, grackles, foxes, hawks and of course,
those pesky but impossibly cute rabbits.)
Then we left on vacation.
Fearing to find the worst
when we returned because by-the-way we are in a drought here, but of course the
plant being a cheeky fellow surprised us by its vim and vigor,
quadrupling in
size and sporting a jaunty wreath of buds and one nascent pumpkin gourd.
There are lots of things The
Husband told me about male and female flowers and how one could manually
pollinate them (which seems rather forward, wouldn’t you say?) but we chose to let the plant decide
how things would go. Each day (another without
rain but with incredible heat) it grows ...
and grows ...
and now Great Pumpkin you
rest like a Great Sow with belly upon the patio for all to behold with awe and
admiration.
But what I drawn to talk
about is this: that when we plant seeds, the only certainty is our hope for how
things might turn out. So we attend to them with a mixture of anticipation,
trust (in them to grow and in our ability to care) and love.
We then marvel at the determination
of Life – pumpkins, our children, ourselves - to persist even in the harshest conditions. Survival for a pumpkin plant and
perhaps ourselves depending upon long, reaching vines, multiple buds, multiple
prospects, and one faithful water bearer showing up as best he or she can.
And the story - which is really about audacity and growth - continue to write itself ...
