This year, I transplanted my poor hydrangea plant, hoping to find it a better home. The hydrangea was one of the first plants I planted when we bought our house. When Ulrich and I were first dating, I painted him a picture of some hydrangea blossoms. According to Chinese tradition, hydrangeas are a symbol of something a kin to soul mates. you get lost in each other as you do in the multitude of petals that hydrangea blossoms produce. I had wanted one in our garden as a reminder of love and making space to "get lost in each other" from time to time.
Unfortunately my precious hydrangea had a tough time in our Livermore yard. The intense sun, the dry summer and the rocky soil lead to scorched leaves and wilting limbs. I've transplanted it twice, hoping it would find a place where it could thrive. But at the end of last year, there was nothing left by dry, dead stalks. I was nearly ready to give up, but as I dug it up, I noticed one bud that looked like there might be some life. One last transplant, then I'll give up. I moved it to some of the most fertile, well watered, shady soil on our property. Year after year a bunch of Calla lilies flourish eachs spring. So, carefully, I planted the hydrangea in it's new home. And, after a few weeks, buds are starting to open and new life is sprouting from the dry stalks.
As we grow close to Easter, I grow eager for the appearance of new life. It seems that creating space for new life involves a degree of discomfort, loss and suffering. Those hard months of the 3rd trimester and pain of labor lead to the joy on receiving that precious, amazing new baby. To give birth to our company, we had to go out on a limb and give up a comfortable job and steady income at Sandia. To welcome the new pope, the old one first had to resign. To get to Easter, we must first encounter the cross of Good Friday.
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