The quality of our dreams

As is my habit, I read Richardson Wright’s daily entry in his “The Gardener’s Bed-Book” this morning. I’m particularly fond of his November Fourteenth essay, first published in 1929.

For Richardson speaks of “paths lined with Iris and Peonies and Hermocallis” within the old apple orchard planted within the homestead he shares with his wife and father. Richardson endears me with their passion for Iris and Peonies, also planted in my gardens for Spring blooming.

Furthermore, there’s the fun of remembering the botanical name “Hermocallis” defines the plethora of lily varieties.

A few lines later I learn Deutzia is the botanical name for Beauty Bush, which grows in shady areas where Mock Oranges and Rhododendrons “can be induced to grow.”

“Such is the quality of our dreams,” I read, and feel the force of truth as I have for twelve Novembers. Then, comes his reward. “And by attaining them piecemeal, that orchard will eventually attain its full stature.”

Ahh…contentment with what Richardson, his wife, and gardener accomplished, plant by plant, also possesses a portion of that quality of their dreams.

In contrast, this past summer, the first without my late husband, I sorely missed sharing my garden plans and happenings with my mate. Rather, I learned to operate Mel’s John Deere to mow his lawn in my most unorthodox way.

Furthermore, cutting blooming flowers and arranging them in bouquets lacked the purpose of pleasing his eye. Rather, I filled vases for my pleasure, and my cats, Cuddles and Mittens, to enjoy. Misunderstanding my meaning, they jumped upon the kitchen table and counter to sniff and sniff and sniff.

After a week of raking and burning leaves, yesterday I lit a match to the final pile in the fire pit. Flames raged, soon reduced to a long swath of smoke drifting westward.

Such is the quality of dreams fulfilled—thirty-six falls with Mel beside the firepit. A dream conceived the summer day we first stepped foot on this undeveloped property.

The dream of renting a hole digger and together planting twenty-plus trees on a chilly, rainy day.

The vision of a lavender farm that arose from our firstborn’s grave. A decade of planting, pruning, and harvesting several varieties of lavender for guests to harvest.

The dream of refreshing guests with lavender lemonade and tea, and lavender lemon honey ice cream.

Yes, dear Reader, I am thankful Richardson Wright provokes me to ponder the boundless quality of my dreams. To speak encouragement to the bereaved and brokenhearted as Richardson speaks to me, is a wonderful, robust gift.

Truly, the flame of his work yet burns.

Dear Reader, whatever your dreams may be, or perhaps you know someone who’s given up dreaming, I recommend you find a copy of The Gardener’s Bed-Book online, or in a bookstore.

As Cuddles, my tortoiseshell cat, curls up on my lap, I know without a doubt, back in 1929, Richardson understood the quality of such dreams.

Therefore, he achieved them, iris by iris, peony by peony. Lily by lily.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com