When is life not present? I know, this might be an incredibly tough question to ponder for someone who’s just lost a loved one; but the answer is a positive one, I think. Microorganisms were recently found in sediment a half mile beneath the surface of an ice-covered lake down in Antarctica. And in the latter part of the last century, chemical-harvesting microorganisms were found to be giving rise to teaming ecosystems in the vicinity of hydrothermal vents deep undersea where tectonic plates meet. It also appears possible that the precursors to life are regularly slung around the galaxy by comets on their celestial rounds. Might it be the case then that life, rather than being a rarity, is actually an eventuality?
It was a humble shrub that prompted me to consider such things once again the other day. You see, late last summer I pruned back an overgrown and tangled cluster of bushes at the side of the house. Part of what I found was a scraggly forsythia trying to reach its way out from underneath an overbearing spirea that had all but smothered it. I decided to transplant what I could to more hospitable areas, but it was far from a surgical procedure. Though I did manage to extract a couple of specimens with fairly robust and intact root balls, a half dozen or so others didn’t leave me with a huge amount of confidence that they would ever bloom again. The last of my charges, however, was in especially pitiful condition. It was little more than broomstick with a stringy little root hanging off of one end! I was so close to simply throwing it on the burn pile and moving on, but something prompted me to put forth the effort in order to give it another chance. I used a post hole digger to quickly excavate a narrow shaft that could accommodate the motley broomstick and its modest little root, and then I went about my ways.
There is a life force ever striving to remain and blossom forth.
It got hot and dry last summer and early autumn. I tried to keep the faith, though, offering up a bucket of water to each of the transplants from time to time – thinking to myself whenever I came to that last one that there really wasn’t much hope for it to rebound come next spring. On top of that we had a long, long winter before spring finally did arrive, and one far colder than I’d ever experienced. And so, as the weather warmed I’d stroll the grounds looking for tentative signs of life beginning to sprout. Sure enough, those two robust specimens bounced back with gusto. Yes, and those half-dozen others subsequently began to show signs of life as well. I’d likely have to trim some of their dead branches away before they would look really healthy once again, but they were definitely going to make it! That broomstick, on the other hand, didn’t surprise me in the least. It looked as dry and lifeless as I thought it was. But it cost me nothing to simply let it be. The spring rains had taken over where my buckets left off. Que sera, sera!
Imagine my delight last week, then, when I strolled the grounds yet again and spied a sprig of life on the end of that broomstick! Who can say when life has taken leave for good? Who can say when there’s no longer any hope? There is something very mysterious going on all around us and deep within. There is a life force ever striving to remain and blossom forth. There might be times when it appears to have disappeared for good, but that little forsythia bush has made me much less certain that that is so.
Copyright 2018 by Mark Robert Frank
All images are the property of the author unless otherwise noted.