Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Agave

Agave plants bloom once, late in their lifetimes, and it's pretty dramatic--a tall (ten- to twenty-foot or even taller) spike shoots up quickly over the course of a few weeks, then sprouts flowers. (This is not a technical, botanically correct description.)

After it blooms--which can take 10 years, or 20--the plant dies. (Don't fret. It has left behind little plants. For a longer version of this story, see Charlotte's Web. Or Little Shop of Horrors.)

A friend in Tucson has been monitoring a blooming plant since early April, posting updates on Instagram. It looked like variations on an asparagus stalk crossed with a Dr. Seuss illustration of a plant ready to open buds. Just a few more days, maybe, until it flowers.

Yesterday, he posted a picture of it lying across the road--high winds uprooted it.

Imagine, all that time put in to maturing, then working so hard to bloom. Then taken out before the work pays off.

A LITTLE ON THE NOSE THERE WITH THAT "LESSON," NATURE.

In a lull between movement on bigger projects, I've been desultorily working on an essay. Emphasis on desultory. I've allowed "oh who even cares" thoughts keep me from writing.

It's okay when those thoughts prevent me from submitting a piece for publication. I even checked to see if this piece still needs* to be written, and it does. It needs to be written, so I need to do it.

In this season of foul weather (check out the weather patterns across the middle of the North American continent and stay safe, y'all), some high winds are surely headed this way.

I'll keep working till then.

* "Needs" here doesn't mean for money or anything other than some inner need I have to work out something on the page. I'm incredibly fortunate that way.