There are deer roaming my neighborhood, which is not surprising since I live seconds away from a 137 acre park. Like all wild creatures, they don’t have a concept of property lines and go walkabout through the ‘hood nightly. I’ve watched them browse the trees and grass and have found their hoofprints in my tiny garden more than once, so I wasn’t too stunned when I looked out my patio door one morning last fall to see two of my geraniums had been nibbled down to nubbins overnight.
One had enough green left to offer some hope for recovery. The other one? Not so much. I had a pot of dirt with a stick in it. It’s a pretty pot and it’s nice black dirt, the kind we have in the fields around here except tarted up some with whatever they put in potting soil, but that didn’t change the fact that I had a potful of dirt with a stick in it. Still, I brought it in with the rest of my plants before it froze and set it down where it was semi-forgotten. I’d look at it sometimes on accident sort of hoping for some kind of miracle, but guess what? I still had a pot of dirt with a stick in it.
Most folks probably would have thrown that stick out. I guess I’m not most folks, because I kept it, and even poured a little water on it now and then, because sticks need water. Of course they do.
I glanced at it yesterday and you know what? there was a tiny shoot of green coming up out of that dead old stick, just the smallest smudge of color. I picked it up and looked at it closer to be sure, and yep, my stick was showing every sign of coming back to life, weeks and weeks after any normal person would have given up on it.
I’m not saying there’s any kind of life lesson or metaphor in this.
Except there is.