Here and Gone

It’s spring, and pretty soon everyone’s garden will be erupting in bloom. That includes our neighbor’s camellia tree, with which I have a deeply ambivalent relationship. 

Every year, the tree produces a riot of color--big, gorgeous, deep red blooms that all burst open at once. It’s a stunning display…for a few days. Then, almost as quickly as they appeared, every flower wilts and fades into a shriveled dry husk. The next spring storm knocks them to the sidewalk, where they congeal into a moist, brown, gelatinous mass that I slip and slide through on the way to my car, stopping before I get in to scrape the rotting residue from my shoes.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about camellia blossoms, and beauty, and the passage of time. Camellias, I think, were probably invented for Buddhists. Every year, they invite us--dare us--to love and admire and exult in their magnificence, even though we know it can’t last. It’s not just about embracing and letting go. It’s about loving fully, here and now, what will soon be lost or ruined. It’s a tricky lesson to learn, but as I get older, it seems to become more indispensable every day.