Labor ≠ Results.
Not in my line of work anyway. When you work in the Public Relations field seeking earned promotional opportunities for your clients, you can spend entire days reaching out to media only to get little to no response.
It’s just how it is.
So I’ve gotta give some grace to other living things on God’s green earth that toil away and have nothing to show for it.
Like the wisteria vine in our side yard, of which I have long had Great Expectations.
I have harbored Wisteria Fantasies as long as I can remember. I want to live in a big-porched home with wisteria dripping outside like purple rain, filling the humid air with the scent of summer. Maybe it’s the southerner wannabe in me. Could be I’ve read Gone With the Wind too many times.
But there it is. Unbridled lust.
For the royal color. The sugar-sweet fragrance. The sheer extravagance of those gorgeous amethyst petals free-falling from the arbor.
So my man planted me a wisteria vine soon after we moved to the Midwest. Didn’t look like much at first.
“Takes time to settle in,” an Amish farmer advised us. “Let it sleep. Next year creep. Then the leap.”
That was over a dozen years ago.
The vine? It’s grown so hefty and dense the arbor is staggering under the weight of its emerald abundance.
But the lush lavender globes I do so long to admire, glass of sweet tea in hand?
I swanee, that ol’ vine keeps on flaunting its infertility right in my petulant face.
My Gardener-Man and Husband, him being one and the same, took a turn around the yard when we returned from a road trip last month. Rounded the corner and looked up at that mysterious wisteria. Gave a shout out.
“Maggie girl, come look at what we’ve got here!”
Huge blooms of a hue so passionately purple to make royalty jealous.
But it was not wisteria.
Seems a clematis vine had taken a predatory interest in that arbor. Had been slyly gathering strength deep within, sheltered by the older vine. Green camouflaging green.
And then when we were away, the jackmanni bloomed big and brilliant, splashing purple clear up to the sky.
And I stood there, hips supporting hands, shaking my head at the marvel of it all.
Purple glory is what I wanted, and purple glory is what I got.
So what if it’s not exactly what we planted?
Sometimes labor ≠ results. Sometimes you don’t get what you worked for. Sometimes the Master Gardener’s got something up your vine that’s way better than you ever imagined.
And that’s mighty fine.
Mighty fine indeed.