I’ve long been confounded by the capricious nature of life.
Last year, I planted two large begonias in identical pots, equidistant from the center of my front porch. While each pot received the same amount of water and sunlight, one flourished and one slowly withered until, by August, it lay sad and petal-less. The more glorious one plant grew, the frailer and sicklier the other became.
It hardly seemed fair.
This year, with some help from a young friend of mine, I planted seeds in my indoor garden. Inexplicably, to me anyway, the watermelon and pepper plants flourished, the oregano grew nicely, and the basil seeds failed to produce a single shoot.
Mary Mary is not the only contrarian. I think Mother Nature is too.
Still, we mortals try. We bury seeds in fertile soil, water, weed, guard against the harsher elements and keep close watch.
Even for the master gardeners, though, the rest is not up to us.
Drought, floods and pestilence wreak their havoc. Hearty vines wither. Green shoots fail to thrive.
My admiration for the farmers I know grows stronger every season. Hard work and expertise offer no guarantees in a profession that depends on both good weather and sound government.
Thankfully, though, every rainbow offers solace, each sunrise renews hope.
