My daughter called me. “I got a request on Facebook asking if I knew you, if you were the person who taught English in Fuling. Do you know this person?” So I asked her to find contact information for my former colleague. I’ve left a message on her phone, but have not yet received her call.
I certainly do recall our summer in Fuling, fifteen years ago. I still wear, for special occasions, the red with gold brocade flowers jacket, traditionally styled with black trim on the mandarin collar, sleeves, and hem, and five black frog closures on the front. I remember that the tailor wished I would have a dress, but I felt the jacket would be more versatile. I wear it with a long black skirt, or black palazzo pants, or velvet slacks. The fabric is traditionally used for a wedding dress in China. It looks like silk brocade, but it might be polyester. I learned that year that to test the fabric, take a thread or two, and holding them over a sink or an ashtray, light them with a match. If they burn, they’re silk. If they melt into a hard ball, they’re polyester.
My young colleague ordered a black jacket. We could tell the tailor disapproved, but that’s what the woman wanted, and that’s what she got. There were eleven of us on that team, two men and nine women. We went with our Chinese assistants, to the downtown shop which stood at the top of about 12 wide steps. While we were all marveling at the fabrics, choosing designs, and being measured for our garments, a crowd gathered on the steps watching us. At that time, Fuling had not seen foreigners for many years, and here we were, eleven of us all in a small space, available for watching.
Later in a conversation about economic realities, I asked a student, “For example, how much does that tailor make per month?” He answered, “This month, perhaps more than usual.”
That trip, my first venture into China, was a very difficult summer. The heat was oppressive, the accommodations, less than five star, the schedule rigorous. But it was life changing for me. Both my colleagues and my students saw me as a teacher in my own right, rather than as an adjunct to my husband, important, but secondary to him and his work. It was as if the light shifted subtly and I saw a new aspect of myself.
I returned to China, another summer, another team, another city. In all, I made six trips to China, always as a teacher. When I’m asked if I miss China, I say, “I miss the person I was able to be while I was in China.” Each trip brought new friends, new colleagues, new students. Deep friendships formed that first summer remain active to this day.
Day by day, season by season, light shifts and shows us new views of ourselves, of others, of life itself. Each day is a gift to be shared with others, in love, in service, and with joy. Shared history, shared memories, give shape to our friendships. But new events, new conversations, give us new growth.
In my garden, some delphinium grew all summer without blooming, but just before first frost, they bloomed, and now, when the weather is chilly, they stand in glory with their blue flowers. I look forward to the new blooming of friendship with my former colleague.

For a long time, I’ve had a mental picture of my garden as I’d like it to be.  I haven’t been able to complete that picture in reality. All my striving, and there’s always more to do.   There is always  growth, either what I’ve planted and tended, or what is wild.
There is some beauty in wilderness, I think, so I have a small area of milkweed, wild flowers and zinnias for butterflies. I observed four monarch butterfly caterpillars in my garden, and when I saw four monarchs, I assumed they had hatched from those caterpillars seen earlier, even though I never saw the cocoons.
The problem is that common milkweed is aggressive and spreads easily with lateral roots to take over the cultivated portion of the yard. It stands over six feet tall, and then bends in the wind to lie in the pathway. To cut, or not to cut? Is there a cocoon hiding within? Dare I root some of it out?

The brick pathways become overrun with weeds. My dear husband, who laid part of the pathway, wants a clean pathway. I want creeping thyme in between the bricks. I plant, he takes out, as he fights the dandelions, grass and other weeds. I have spent a fair amount of money on little pots of creeping thyme, which always dies, or disappears, and finally this year, I bought seed. The directions say to keep it well watered, and this year was exceptionally dry. I watered almost every day in July, but I see little success in the creeping thyme plan. How much time should I spend on the paths? How much time do I have in the garden?
Years ago, I put some peppermint in a flower bed, and by this year, it has taken over that space, few flowers left. I’ve donated bags and bags of it to a small local food bank. My daughter always takes some home with her, and I cut it to use as tea or flavoring. Still, it is always overflowing that bed.

Squirrels are cute as they run about from the roof of the garage, across the fence, or over the ground, and they have their place in nature, as my 6th grade teacher explained. But, they continually plant nuts in my garden beds, among the tomatoes, squash, and cabbage, and they have bitten into lots of tomatoes, leaving the remains on the path. We installed a little battery run noisemaker to deter the squirrels and other wildlife. The noise is like that of a large predatory bird. Could this be why we have no birds in the garden this year? Or is it because our neighbor moved out and no feeders remain? Should I start feeding the birds?
What about the “community cats” as they are now called, instead of “alley cats”? The neighbor tamed them enough to capture them and take them to a veterinarian who spayed them, gave them shots, and clipped their ears to mark them as having been cared for. These four black cats were born in the depth of winter in the neighbor’s garage a few years ago. She left the door ajar so they could get in. They have always enjoyed time in my garden as if it belongs to them. They love to use the beds as their personal toilets, so I have laid chicken wire, or special plastic cat deterrents over the beds. These make both weeding and harvesting difficult. The cats won’t come near me, which is just as well since I am allergic to them. They do keep the mouse population down, so I don’t shoo them away.
Husband has trapped some possum, raccoon and woodchucks, and taken them to wild areas by the river. In an earlier time, say a hundred years ago, we might have eaten them, as my father’s family did. We have the luxury of buying meat from a farmer, or a grocery store. My garden isn’t a matter of life and death for us, as it was for my grandma, feeding her nine children daily. I have a fond memory of her wilted dandelion green salad. But I don’t eat my dandelions.
This year, I looked at my garden and said, “I have recovered from cancer, but my garden has not.” One season of neglect can take three or more seasons to recover. I found that every time I went outside it was to work, striving to make the reality fit the picture in my mind. I found despair instead of pleasure. Weeds and more weeds were everywhere. Bugs, bugs and more bugs. Japanese beetles decimated the green bean plants. I learned in 2017 though, that the plants would survive and still produce in spite of the beetles, so I didn’t fight back. I did not know that onions are time sensitive and that may be why they don’t produce. I wondered why the beets don’t make full roots. I wondered why the cauliflower didn’t make full heads. I learned that the dahlias need more space. I wondered why I do any of this.
One day I realized that I must sit in the Adirondack chair my neighbor left me, when she left the neighborhood, put my feet up, let the sun caress my face, and enjoy my garden. Look at the four monarchs cruising around, and there is a swallowtail! Look at the dahlias, and the zinnias, and the marigolds! See the purple cabbage filling that bed with its full leaves protecting the heads. Note the aroma of the mint, and dill, and that rosemary. The red begonia by the shaded bench which was a “special today, $20.00” has been flourishing all summer and into the fall. And, those giant coleus are magnificent. The pink rose has taken root and is thriving by the patio table. The Japanese maple is recovering from the late frost loss, and by next year will be beautiful again. The hydrangeas surrounding it are also thriving.
The garden doesn’t have to be perfect, and in fact can never be perfect. It can be substantially beautiful, if I choose to look at the beauty instead of the faults. I can ask for help, as I did this year, or I can wallow in the volume of work needed. I can give thanks for the water available to me, or fuss about the time it takes to water everything. I can rejoice in the four pumpkins available to harvest, instead of lamenting that so many were lost. Autumn is upon us, time to do what can be done to get ready for the long winter, and for spring. There will be a few bright days left in the year when I can be in the place I love best, my garden.