Violets for the Soul

Spring has sprung: It’s a garden party in our back yard, and Mother Nature has flung the doors wide.

This time of year, before the oppressive heat and humidity set in and hurricane season begins, we welcome our perennial friends in all their glory. We take advantage of cool breezes and warm sunshine to freshen the beds and set the scene for the gathering to come.

With preparations under way (it seems they’re never really complete), our daily ritual is to stroll the yard, looking for the latest visitors to take up residence in their familiar, favorite spots. Each new tendril of green, each freshly formed bud, is cause for celebration.

Once the tree canopy begins to leaf out, it’s officially party time. The antique roses are first to arrive, followed by the tender green shoots and freshly formed buds of bulbs and tender perennials, many of them living legacies of fellow gardeners we’ve known and loved. They come dressed in the colors of spring – bright shades of green, pink, blue and yellow – escorting the dreary browns of winter off the premises.

There’s no formal invitation; all are welcome. Yet sometimes during our daily sightings we’re caught by surprise when the occasional newcomer pops up with no introduction or calling card. Often they slip in by way of the birdfeeder, its seed spilling onto the ground below. We’ve learned to refrain from pulling what appear to be weeds and thereby deterring a special guest of Mother Nature, such as the sunflowers rubbing elbows this week with a couple of roses along the back fence.  

The more the merrier, I say.

But one day as I walked across the lawn a fleck of purple and yellow stopped me in my tracks. A tiny viola, her bloom no more than an inch in diameter, had somehow sprouted near our patio, just between a trench of river rocks and the St. Augustine grass waking up from its winter dormancy. I remembered planting a few of these cool-weather bedding plants, considered annuals in our region, in containers a fall or so ago. And here she was, acting like a perennial and ready to join our garden party, despite all the naysayers who told her she shouldn’t be here.

Sorry, you’re not on the list.

            I’ve come so far. I won’t be any trouble.

You’re not like us.

            Bet we’d make a pretty bouquet, though.

You’re so last-season.

            I’ve always admired the flowers of summer. Please let me at least say hello.

You’ll be trampled.

            I’m stronger than you think. Why do you think they call me Johnny Jump Up?

There’s no room for you here.

            I won’t take up much space, I promise.

Despite the odds, the seedling had grown beneath the surface and pushed through the hard earth, in competition with the St. Augustine and assorted weeds, with nothing but cold, inhospitable rocks on the other side. Her moxie was impressive.

Miraculously, she survived for a couple of weeks, undisturbed despite her position in a high-traffic area where our dog is known to barrel through in hot pursuit of squirrels. My husband and I carefully stepped around the tenacious little plant and tried our best to help her along. I began to view her tenuous growth as a symbol of agency, courage and determination to which many of us aspire.

I was reminded of a favorite children’s book, “The Little Engine That Could,” by Watty Piper, aka Arnold Munk of the publisher Platt & Munk. It’s about a little engine that agrees to try to pull a long train over a mountain when all the bigger engines are too self-important to help. I can still hear my mother reading aloud, “I think I can, I think I can,” as the locomotive huffed and puffed with its heavy load, and then our rejoicing as the train made it over to the other side and we recited together, “I thought I could, I thought I could!”

I’m grateful that our indomitable viola showed similar perseverance.

When it seemed she was strong enough to withstand a transplant, I gently scooped her up in a trowel and added her to a planter of herbs and periwinkles. All are getting along just fine, in spite of their many differences. Sure, some like it hot, some like it cold. But they all need the sun. And together, they make a beautiful mix of color and texture.

The little flower that could is welcome here as long as she wants to stay. Who knows, perhaps she’ll bring a friend to next year’s garden party. The door will be open wide.