Last spring a beautiful flower garden, planted by an anonymous woman, appeared at the base of one of my favorite hiking trails, next to the big parking lot. For several months, perennials were added on a regular basis; a notebook with a waterproof cover was left on a stone for hikers to add our thoughts, with the suggestion that we empty our water containers on the flowers at the end of our hikes. The comments accumulating in the notebook were inspiring, and the flowers grew and flourished.
A few weeks ago, a monster rain swept through the parking lot and wiped out most of the flowers, leaving an expanse of mud. The notebook disappeared, and there was no attempt, on anyone’s part, to replant what had been destroyed. It seemed that the garden so many of us had enjoyed was finished.
We’ve continued to have rain, gentle at times, and when I returned from my three-week vacation, I discovered that the garden had regenerated. Not everything came back, but enough re-sprouted to create a rich border against the fence.
I take hope from this miracle. Perhaps even the natural cycles we have abused to such a great degree have an innate strength and will to survive not only human depredations but the disorders of our disordered climate—to survive, and even to flourish.