Last Iris

Today sees the final rise, peak and (toward evening) the fall of this season's last iris.

It's been a glorious run these last weeks.  Some years we get the occasional violet flowering.  This year, they were all a lovely, buttery yellow.  I am sorry to see this last one go.

Yet, the Buddhist within has long learned to respect this.  Everything worth living for is transient: happiness, beauty, meaning.  Even irises.

So, do we make the mistake of trying to hold on too tightly to this last iris?  Of course not.  That would be silly.  Indeed, we cannot hold back the forces of life.  Instead, the inner Taoist works with them.

Lately, we've been talking at home quite a lot about living creatively.  (Which, of course, is working its way into my new novel.)  That once we realize how transient life is, the importance of each moment takes on new meaning.

Will the moments of my life take on a dreary sameness, or will I consciously apply them toward the distinctive, the fresh, the brief?

Trying to answer this profound question has had a prosaic effect on our garden, for example.  What do we plant and why?  Should our garden take on a pretty (at first) then (later) stale sameness all year round?  Some nearby neighbors have made that choice.  Whenever I look at their garden, no matter the month, it looks the same.

On the other hand, what if we consciously planted flowers, say, to bloom in different corners of the yard at different times?  Having committed ourselves artistically in this fashion, we then get to enjoy the blooms of that choice.

Today we take those quiet moments to say goodbye to the last of the irises, knowing that yesterday saw the first day lily bloom and the latest rose blooms.  And that tomorrow will bring its fresh joys, too.