Last spring my friend gave me a lovely hanging violet plant. I was thrilled because I love flowers, and brightening my house is the easiest way to brighten my spirit.
The violets were fresh, purple-blue nestled in the waxy green leaves of spring. But the summer came with its heat. I went away. The deep purple color left, too. The sun left the violets a pale blue. The leaves dulled from green to gray-green to brown.
When I came home from vacation it was a forlorn plant that hung off my front stoop.
For a couple of weeks I tried to revive it, cut it back, feed it more. Nothing worked. Failure to thrive. Failure to keep spring glowing through summer. Finally, I took the sad plant pulled it out of its pot and placed it on top of the yard debris.
I sat on the hot stone of my doorstep in gloom.
I bent to pull a dead leaf off my grateful Gerbera Daisy and noticed a dash of purple on the far side of the clay pot. A violet was cheerfully poking up around the daisy’s green leaves.
I swept my arms over my head in a triumphant arc, knocking my hand on the iron rail as I moved. I turned to look at the iron post and noticed a pale purple on the lawn. There was a violet growing up in the edge between the front walk and the lawn, and there were six tiny violets without blossoms next to the intrepid bloomer. I got up to admire my crop of violets and saw that there was yet another violet colony in my cellar window well.
The joy, the immense pleasure of my friend’s flowers spreading to other parts of my yard perfectly match the endless delight of knowing someone who is consistently spreading tiny blossoms of purple-blue joy throughout my life.