Red Threads

"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break." -Chinese proverb

I am lucky. At least that's what I think most of the time. Not only do I put my fingers on the pulse of  a part of nature every day. I also brush those fingertips across the arteries of the plant lover's world to measure the heartbeats of lovely people I've never met. I've been saying for some time that real plant people are the best. I've got loads of good friends and customers and acquaintances that prove that axiom over and over.

But over the years, I've had increasing anecdotal evidence that plant lovers are all bound to each other by esp, or biology, or by genetics, psychology, or ancestral memory. Or maybe it is just a red thread.

For instance: I've had a year long casual correspondence with a woman from Arkansas. She came to me via my website when she wanted to purchase some Hydrangea quercifolia 'Harmony', one of the more unusual Oakleaf Hydrangeas. I had a few left that I could ship, but she wanted a dozen or more and I was almost out. Instead of looking elsewhere, she said she would wait if I would have more in the spring. Spring came, and she contacted me to make sure I was ready for her order. As noted on my calendar, I was ready, and could ship the plants out that end of March, when her new garden area would be ready. So, we finalized the order and shipping date, and she told me about the new Oriental style bridge in her garden that would have these Hydrangeas as a backdrop. I responded politely that it sounded lovely, and that I hoped the winter had not been too cold there and that spring would soon be here. And she responded back,"This has been not the best winter because I lost my husband on Jan. 29th.  So, I plan to garden with a vengeance and keep really busy this Spring. "

No longer was this a simple business transaction. Anyone whose plan to deal with grief was to "garden with a vengeance" was now a family member to me; a shared soul. It did not matter that I knew nothing of her, or her husband, or her garden, or even Arkansas! Instantly, I felt I had known her for years, watched her bear the loss, and now I was sure that those plants she'd been patiently waiting for me to send her were part of her recovery plan before she even knew she would really need them.

Or this: Early last fall, I was contacted by a woman who wanted me to come speak to her garden club in Tucker- about an hour and a half away. I explained that I would consider it, but needed to charge a small fee for my time and gas, etc. She said her club was made up of elderly ladies, and that they rarely paid speaker fees. So I offered to have them come out for a tour of the nursery and a talk on any topic for free. She continued to explain that the ladies were mostly homebodies, and many were downsizing to apartments and condos. Many did not really even own gardens anymore. I was discouraged, and said I would think about it. But secretly, I figured this would be a waste of my time.
About two weeks later, the woman from the phone call and a friend drove out to the nursery to try to talk me into doing the springtime talk to her group. They both seemed impressed with our place. We walked and talked, and wandered around topics that might appeal to the group. I offered the idea of container gardening as an easy means to keep even an apartment dweller in touch with their love of digging in the dirt and watching plants grow. They agreed, and said they would find a way to collect the fees if I would just come in April. So I put it on the calendar.

Fall proceeded into winter, and soon, it was April. I was overwhelmed with the spring rush to get the nursery ready, the coming sales, the "too tired" longer days. But now was that morning to give the time I had promised to this group of non-gardening garden clubbers. Why had I been so stupid to fall for their entreaties? What would it get me, besides a little farther behind?
I loaded up the truck with some demo plants, a pot or two, some soil, and a small planted hypertufa pot that I had agreed to donate for them to raffle off to help pay me. I had a chip on my shoulder, but I had agreed, so I was just going to do it. I drove in through rush hour traffic to the meeting site at a private residence.
When I got there, the small 60's house with the flag was easy to find- it had cars up and down the street on either side of it. I carried my plants in to find the room packed like sardines full of smiling faces. I got started, and I could see by those faces that they were hanging on every word. They had questions. They had comments, suggestions, and stories. Someone yelled out "Road Trip!" when I told them where the nursery was. One woman would not let me leave without buying the first two plants I offered as a combination. Another compared notes about her hypertufa recipe and mine. A third, the winner of my raffled pot, insisted that she needed to

"touch" its creator so she would have good luck growing it. She gave me a big bear hug to seal the deal. After a big round of applause, I packed up the few plants and pots that were left, and headed home.
How could I have been so stupid? I thought I would waste my precious time. But instead, by sharing my passion for gardening, I touched the red thread in each of those lifetime gardeners, and all of a sudden, we were destined to meet that day. I've never had a more appreciative and attentive audience in all my years of giving talks to groups. And they reminded me how much my passion must be shared to be fully enjoyed.
So now I am trying to remember: no matter how tangled or stretched my ego and patience get, that thread will never break. Gosh, am I lucky.