I know I fancy myself a gardener. But no one, seeing the wild growth beneath my big oaks, would take that seriously. Sure, I like to plant things, but after that they’re on their own. Take my scarlet sage. I dug up one plant fifteen years ago. Brought it home. Planted it. Babied it. And helped it thrive. Now. Its descendants are everywhere in the garden, and I have no say as to where. They just go where the wind blows.
It’s the same with the spiderworts. I mowed around one in the yard when we first moved here. Saw it bloom. Liked it. Dug it up. And planted it beneath the big oaks. Now, the plants are literally everywhere. So, ding me as a gardener, but that feels like life. You find people you like. You bring them home, or you go where they live. You let them be themselves, to bloom and bring color and joy to your life. And sometimes it doesn’t work out, but when it does you have a butterfly garden of humanity, and a fine refuge from the occasional weariness of life.