Every year I wait for the irises to bloom. While others surprise with an early start – hello peonies – or deliver right on scheduled time – hello dear lilacs – the irises always make me wait. It’s a game that goes back to 1987, when I planted my first Siberian iris from Faddegon’s. It had about five buds on it when purchased, and after it went into the ground I would religiously walk out to inspect it every day, waiting for the buds to swell and open.
Eventually they did, and then all too quickly they were gone, withered by the oppressive heat that suddenly arrives for a few days every year around iris time. That only made me watch them more eagerly the following year, and every year thereafter.
This year was no different – our Japanese iris, after a few years of extra-special care and pampering, had begun delivering blooms after a few years of neglect, and I could not wait to see their blooms, as this season we had the most ever – 40 flower stalks at last count! (I rarely use exclamation points seriously, so please mind this moment.)
While it felt like they took their time coming into bloom, they’re actually a little early for a Japanese iris – something that climate change seems to have a hand in shifting. I was especially anxious this year, so every day I would be out inspecting them, seeing if I could detect any slivers of purple showing through the green buds.
It was on Father’s Day when this boon of iris blooms deigned to begin its show, seemingly delivered by Dad, as if he knew how much I’d missed him that day.
They float like magnificent butterflies, bobbing in the slightest breeze and gracefully carrying their beauty on regal stems. The universe sometimes grants solace in the form of beauty, healing in the blooms of a garden.
