Years ago, I bought a few hostas and planted them out by one of the big old oak trees on the east side of the house. Then I forgot about them. Then Buck weed whacked them (not knowing). Then they came back, as survivors do, again and again. So about three years ago I finally noticed and moved them to the safety of the bed in front of the house that I was just at that time creating (the one which became home to the blanket flower and other miscellaneous urges of a person with a gardening itch who doesn’t know how to properly scratch it). The hostas didn’t precisely thrive there, but they survived, never got weed whacked again and the little colony grew.
Now they’ve been moved from that too sunny for them spot to the breezeway garden, along with a hydrangea who has also suffered from too much Gulf coast sun. The poor hydrangea managed to survive sun, winter and a pruner (me) who doesn’t know how or when to prune. The jury is out as to whether it will ever bloom again, but at least now, ensconced in its new spot in dappled light and shade, it has grown full and leafy and if a plant can look relieved, this one does.
I’ve killed a lot of sentences in my time and quite a few plants, too, sad to say. I pursue beauty and truth in fits and starts, and my highway of good intentions is littered with wounded innocents. I have a pretty tough little hosta colony now and a half-written novel. I’m gonna keep on gnawing that bone, no matter how many times I have to bury it, unearth it and gnaw it some more.