Looking out my Backdoor: Life wants to live

John stopped by and plunked a book the size of a dictionary onto my table. When we get together we invariably weave words into a maze of history, philosophy, politics: world situations as we see them.

“Ah, just what I need,” I said as I scanned the title. “A large dose of depression.”

He and I speak a similar style of tangents, so John rejoined with, “I read an article in the WP yesterday that implied we are lacking one main element in our outlook.”

“Intelligence?”

“Well, a little more subtle than that. Hope and Joy.” (Which are two things but I kindly chose not to quibble the point.)

“Ah.”

John told a story about a vibrant cardinal (bird, not baseball). ‘Tis the season for both, baseball and a cardinal named Joy. I thought about my mint patch and eyeballed my one hollyhock. Hope and Joy.

Everything you need to know of Hope and Joy, you can find encompassed in a garden. Any garden. Flower pots on the balcony. Herbs in the windowsill. A two-acre spread like Uncle George used to tend.

My own garden grows in various pots, 5-gallon buckets and garbage cans. Squash is on its second planting for the year, astonishingly, as we’ve just broken into April.

Native plants flourish. Of course they do. But even the Spanish Conquistadors brought all kinds of seedlings to this New Country, some which natives and emigrants now think are native, such as the jacaranda, early in bloom this year, purple umbrellas lifted to the skies.

I fill my yard with hibiscus. Birds plant lantana. Tomatillos and lettuce grow under the lime trees, seeds windblown. Tomatoes remind me of the never-ending water buckets of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, threatening to drown me in a river of tomato juice.

Not all is joy. There is a native flower that flourishes in every yard but mine. I asked Leo what the problem might be. After silence of much thought, he told me, “I think it doesn’t like you.” After the third death, I quit trying and filed that beauty under the heading of No Hope.

Another plant fail, whether native or transplant, I don’t know, but I cannot grow begonias. They flourish in gardens around town. Three neighbors display overflowing pots of these delicate blooms. I avert my eyes from begonias when I visit, just in case my gaze be lethal.

We gringos all smuggle contraband seeds into the country. A friend brought me a much dreamed for rhubarb. I planted the dried, shriveled rootstock and waited. After a year plus, I harvest a stalk or two at a time, chop it for the freezer, surround my little plant with love and hope. Hope to collect enough for a pie. Hope it keeps growing and maybe next year might flourish. A familiar hope to those of us from Next Year Country.

Another friend gave me three hollyhock seeds, which I planted last year. Of the three plants which grew a foot high, one survived, tall and overloaded with buds; this week burst into an astonishing stalk of pink joy. Now I want more colors!

I nourished my comfrey with much hope and fuss-about. I now have two lovely bunches and spreading. There may be native comfrey around since it is either weed or healing herb. I don’t know. But I’ve not seen any. I share my seeds. If it is not native, it soon will be. Birds love the seeds.

So, yes, I find joy and hope tending my garden. I don’t tend your garden nor interfere with my strong opinions. I pull my own weeds.

More than any of the above, even the tomatoes, what gives me most hope, what flooded my heart with joy, is mint. Years back I planted mint along my brick wall under a flowering bush of unknown name. I watched the mint spread, move out along the wall and eventually disappear.

I planted another mint in a different garden area. It moved, like a glacier, but it moved. Eventually it also disappeared. I gave up, planted mint in two pots. “Ha! Now you will stay where I put you!” Yesterday I found a new patch of mint, sprung up where I planted my first mint.

Mint tells me life really does want to live. It tells me hope and joy and love are strong. It says we will survive. Now, where did I hide John’s book.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.