embracing the charm

I'm a recovering perfectionist.  Or maybe I should say I'm a perfectionist who knows that recovery would really be a good idea.  But, that  does not mean I'm enthusiastic about this process.  I prefer things to be neat, clean, and tidy.  That's how I thrive.  I was managing just fine until I encountered this thing called life.  It turned out to be rather messy and it took me a bit to regroup.  Nevertheless, I can honestly say I feel like I have learned to just take a deep breathe and let. some. things. go. in almost every area of life... except one.  My flower beds.  Also known as, my bulb jungle.

We bought this "farm" from an old couple who had called this place their home for 50 years. They raised their only daughter here.  They wallpapered all the bedrooms.  They stirred soup on the old cook stove.  They hung the loveliest porch swing.  And they planted bulbs.  I'm trying hard to forgive them for that last activity.  Don't  get me wrong.  I do enjoy bulbs... in moderation.  But, multitudes of bulbs planted in every single flower bed and then left to do their own thing for 50 years does not lend itself to being neat or tidy in any way.  And this wanna be recovering perfectionist has no idea how to respond.

Perhaps I should explain what kind of bulbs I am afflicted with.  Don't get any beautiful pictures of bold allium balls or tall poppies in your mind.  Rather, think of orange day lilies and very pale daffodils that look every bit their age.  I tried digging them up last summer.  I felt confident I had uprooted the majority of them and could start fresh with my own landscaping dreams this year.  Spring came in February, and I heard an evil cackle outside my kitchen window.  I looked out to see none other than Mr. Daffodil and Mrs. Lily Day poking their proud heads out of the thawing earth.  I was aghast at just how many of their decendants had survived.  So, I ignored them fiercely.  I did not nurture them or encourage growth.  I let the dogs trample them.  And the crazy things proceeded to bud like they have for the past 50 years.  Wait, for  the past 50 years?!

Oh, good grief.  The poor things are only doing what they were made to do.  Why not give them a space to flourish?  Does it really matter if they aren't in neat or tidy rows? After months of brown and grey, I should be exuberant over ANY flower, even a pale, worn out daffodil.  And if I let my imagination run, I can see a young bride sitting in my very own kitchen, pouring over a Breck's catalog.  She ordered those bulbs with pride and planted them with hope.  And then life happened.  Her back began to stoop.  Her knees started to stiffen.  And her bulbs became a burden.  So she sold their beloved farm and bulbs to a new young bride who is learning to embrace the charm of never knowing where the next batch of daffodils will crop up. 

Last night, I saw this spring's very first splash of yellow... in the middle of my front lawn.  Instead of agonizing over the fact that there are daffodils trespassing on my grass, I simply picked that darling bloom and put it in a vase.  Sometimes the messiest things are really the prettiest of all.