As our
post-flood landscaping project started taking shape in July, our friends Lynae
and Mark offered us plants from their “Giving Garden” to help spruce things up.
The Giving Garden is a sort of summer camp for the floral over-achievers Lynae
thins out of her breathtaking flower beds and generously saves for friends
whose sparser yards could use some color, texture and TLC.
Mike and I
transplanted the lilies, globeflower, irises, chives and more on the first of a
dozen 90 degree days, and we watched them fight for survival in the sizzling
heat. Weeks later, things were still looking a bit dubious. “Don’t worry about
how they look above ground,” Lynae said wisely. “This summer, what’s happening below
the soil is what matters.”
Later it
struck me that she was right about more than just gardening. This summer was
all about putting down roots.
Mike flew
airplanes. I raced well. Both of us are starting to talk a little funny. And drive like
we’re from here.
Summer weather
began in April and is just now winding down. We were quickly swept up
by the manic energy of a place where harsh winters rule: When the weather is good, don’t waste it. Work hard, and play hard,
because you will have plenty of time to rest when the snow comes.
It was a
summer filled with new playmates, playthings and playlists. Of paddling and
pedaling in the sunrise and the sunset, and discovering and growing during the
hours in between.
They say you
never forget how to ride a bike, and this summer, the time we spent riding our
bikes was indeed unforgettable.
Riding fast
for the first time in years, thanks to friends who push the limits, and make
you brave enough to embrace new ones. Worthy competitors and companions who
offer you their rear wheels when you are tired, and graciously take yours from
time to time, even if they don’t really need it. Of early morning two-wheeled forays
to tiny farm towns; of 70 hard miles in stunning heat and humidity followed by a
shameless faceplant into a quart of chocolate chip mint.
We watched
new friends become triathletes for the first time, and shared their highs and lows.
I
roadtripped with friends to a race in Minnesota, finding myself tucking into an
unlikely pre-race dinner in Chinese restaurant in the blue-eyed outpost of Lino
Lakes. I looked at the dozen faces around the table and thought, a
year ago, I didn’t know any of them, but I think I have found more of my people.
And what did my fortune cookie say that night? Home is where the heart is.
Part of
making a new home is managing homesickness, and believe me, there are dark
days. I often dream I’m standing barefoot on the Madison Park shoreline at
daybreak. An invisible hand zips me into
my wetsuit. The hand rests reassuringly on my shoulder for just a second, like
it has so many times in real life. Maybe it’s Liz’s hand, or Rob’s or Rick’s or
Joseph’s or Tatyana’s or Ruth’s…I always wake up before I can tell for sure.
But I have no doubt about what it means.
So now, as
autumn is in the air, the Giving Garden transplants are growing happily. Do
they miss their past home and Lynae’s able hand? Of that I am certain. But each
day, they look more and more like they belong here, roots getting stronger, fortified
to face the winter.
