The Plot Thickens

It is early May as I write, and we are having an extraordinary spring in Washington. I'm usually not good at noticing such things.

About this time each year, I take a short pilgrimage out New York Avenue to the National Arboretum, to walk under canopies of giant azaleas donning brilliant hues of red and pink, mixed with softer shades of peach and lavender. It is my one nod to spring. No matter how busy I am, I find an afternoon to pay homage to these marvelous flowers -- more breathtaking, I find, than the much-touted Washington cherry blossoms.

But this year I'm noticing more than the azaleas. Maybe it's because we experienced the bleakest winter in a long time -- not harsh by weather standards, but barren for the soul. Maybe it's because during the long, lean days of Lent, I learned a few things. I was prepared to see resurrection wherever it presented itself.

And there is also the fact that, with a move to 13th Street last summer, I inherited a little plot of sloping earth out front. It began popping with green things about a month ago, thanks to the plantings of the previous tenants -- first with thyme and spearmint, followed by a wave of tulips, a fragrant hyacinth or two, and a spreading carpet of purple phlox.

The flowers came and went, and the mint was threatening to take over the neighborhood -- in collaboration, it seemed, with an array of weeds that defied all natural coalitions. Something needed to be done.

I confess that the word "garden" brings a wave of mixed emotions. I remember with fondness August days in Pennsylvania, with endless ears of fresh, sweet corn and juicy, red tomatoes the size of softballs, right out of the backyard garden. And I also remember my sisters and I complaining as we capped and snapped equally endless bushel baskets of green beans -- and when the beets began showing up on the dinner table.

With these memories, a growing weed patch, and very little knowledge, I set out last weekend to "work on the garden." I was smart enough to know that you can't grow sweet corn -- which would have been my first choice -- on a sloping plot the size of a postage stamp next to traffic. So far so good.

I WANTED FLOWERS. I went to a nursery outside of Washington, feeling that plants really ought to come from out of the city. I was like the proverbial kid in the candy store, having been truly unaware that there are 220-plus varieties of azaleas alone, and amazing flowers with all kinds of exotic names and needs.

I spent a couple of hours just looking. And then I faced a dilemma I hadn't counted on. It was exemplifed by a particular Stargazer lily -- a tall, stately, beautiful creation with three huge trumpet-like blossoms of pink hue with striking burgundy markings. I wanted to buy it immediately. The price was $17.95 (I checked twice).

I could buy a Stargazer lily bulb for just $1.95. That was in my price range. But still, that plant was awfully beautiful. And it would take weeks before a bulb would produce a flower -- if it did at all; because sometimes, I was told, a lily doesn't produce a flower the first year it's planted.

A similar dilemma came up with marigolds, and snapdragons, and a variety of other flowers. You could get seed packets to cover a garden for just $1.19; or small plants for $1.40 each; or actual mature flowering plants for twice that.

I knew what I needed to do. I actually began to look down on the people who were carrying around their boxes full of flowering plants. I was going to go seeds all the way. I would plant and water and tend them carefully, patiently waiting to reap my reward.

I left with seed packets for marigolds, forget-me-nots, and delphinia -- and a Stargazer lily bulb. Well, okay, so I snuck back and bought two little foxglove plants (but only because there weren't seeds to buy and the picture on the little plastic thing stuck in the soil looked so interesting). And something called pink lantana, which was already flowering (but it didn't seem to come in any more primitive form -- and it was really beautiful). And a few snapdragons (just to give the garden a little interest and color while we're waiting on the other things). Okay, okay -- and an azalea. I couldn't help myself.

I spent a day pulling the weeds, preparing the soil, and deciding what to put where; sowing seeds, planting plants, and watering. It was marvelous. Even the aching muscles at the end of it were a sign of a satisfying day well spent.

That same night, a few blocks away, Washington had its first riot in almost 25 years. The melee involved a shooting by a police officer and a rampaging crowd of several hundred people, which for six hours threw rocks and bottles, set police vehicles on fire, and looted stores.

The next afternoon thunderstorms, severe enough to carry accompanying tornado warnings, rumbled through the city. The rain pelted my young garden relentlessly. My tiny Stargazer was safe and sound four inches under the ground. The plants survived with a slight battering.

About an hour after the storm -- as helicopters with spotlights circled overhead, and smoke from burning cars and clouds of tear gas wafted by in the second night of the riot -- I thought (not that I needed the reminder) that life is difficult for the vulnerable. In the first 36 hours of its life, my tiny garden had survived both a state of emergency and a tornado watch -- not to mention the fact that there for a while it looked like Dan Quayle was going to be president in the hours that it put down its roots.

I check every morning to see if something other than a weed has appeared where I sowed seeds -- even though I know that it will be days before they germinate. I can't help myself.

The garden -- which I have thought at moments to be a trivial distraction as the city is again (still) in crisis -- is quite the opposite. It feels like a little plot of faith, a delicate sign of hope. And it reminds me every day that the things really worth believing in always take time.

Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.