A landscaper friend of mine used to bring me
plants she’d thinned from other people’s gardens.
One day she showed up with iris bulbs and
when I asked what color they were she said, “Brown.”
“Brown? Who wants brown flowers?
I’ve got plenty of brown flowers that didn’t make it
through the heat of summer and you bring me
on-purpose brown flowers? Really, Judi? Brown?!”
(We had that kind of relationship)
Fast-forward to this morning when I was waiting in
the driveway for Zebu and Wildebeest.
I looked over at the patch of blooming iris
and thought, “Aren’t they lovely?”
I’ve grown quite fond of my brown flowers.
Most gardens throughout my neighborhood have an iris display,
but I’ve yet to find another showcasing these brown beauties.
My iris are unique.
They aren’t brilliant yellow or gaudy purple or oh-so-delicate pink.
Which just goes to show how taste is not only subjective
but also apt to change. And so I draw the inevitable connection
to the writing life. No project will ever attract unanimous
adoration and it would be pointless and silly to have those expectations.
What isn’t silly, however, is remembering that tastes vary.
Sometimes it’s just a matter of locating the right garden.