Passionflower

Such a showy flower, yet somehow, you’re not over the top even as you grow over the top of my bathroom window. I thought you might make it up to the bedroom, but even you have limits. Hard to believe from the way you’ve taken over the south side of my house. Almost. I wish you’d take over more of it, like the trellis, but I haven’t yet been able to convince you of that. I’m working on it. It’s amazing how much you grow; how much material you create from soil and sunlight in just a few months. Even with peppermint trying to steal the show and taking some of the nutrients you need. Or blocking the sunlight. You come up a lot later in the season, but you power through that minty mess.

I originally planted you in another spot. I had visions of an arched arbor, covered with passionflower, creating a dreamy entrance to our back yard. Good thing we didn’t build that for you. You had different plans. Or did I guide you away from that plan? I don’t remember now. I tend to do that; dig up a plant and move it somewhere else. Maybe it was a little of both of us.
​You’ve been around for 14 years or so. Who can keep track anymore, and why bother counting? My partner and I don’t have an anniversary because it just doesn’t matter. You don’t stray too far, though there is an adventurous side of you. 

You found your way out of the bed’s borders under large pavers, to the fence on the other side of the walkway. It’s not a great spot. You get walked on and mowed down. You’re too far from the fence to reach it safely. Yet you insist. One day I might make that a bed and you can form a nice privacy screen. And then you can grow into the neighbor’s yard and, maybe we need to practice a little more control. Boundaries. Good fences make good neighbors? Instead, I’ll continue to gently guide you to where I feel you should be, as I’ve tried before. Sometimes you listen. You have a mind of your own, but I feel like we’ve been able to work together to find what makes us both happy. You thrive with a little guidance, like a teenager. You may not want it, you may insist on doing your own thing, but we all grow with some help. Don’t we? No matter what the age. Help is hard to get, or maybe hard to receive as we get older.

Your location feels like a war zone at times. War isn’t the right word. You all seem to get along, strawberries, mint, lemon balm and asters, chickweed and crocus all competing for the same territory. You’ve got your different seasons, different layers. You all have your time to shine and find your space. The occasional other weed comes in, the clematis or a rogue garlic. I step in and help. Others move over voluntarily in search of better nutrients. I do my part to give all of you the space you need, you take what you need. l offer compost as fertilizer. I don’t water you much. You don’t seem to need it!

There’s more of you than I could possibly use this year. We gave you makeshift trellises of metal shelves leaning against the house and water barrels. Much of what we do is makeshift. We use what we have, repurposing, experimenting, avoiding permanence. You’ll grab whatever you can find, like the siding or windows. You’ve grown into the siding, weaving under and through. Twice now you’ve grown into my bathroom window screen, ripped it, pulled it down and continued on your way to my ceiling. I shove you back outside. You’re not particular; if you can grab it, you grab it! Last year’s ropes were not quite enough. They were limiting. Or was it the drought? You’re so tolerant of drought, but once again, everyone has their edge.

You bring me a smile when you first pop out of the ground. It starts with anticipation, worry, anxiety. You don’t come up early, you wait for warmer weather, testing my patience. Since your second year with us, I’ve been convinced every May that you aren’t coming back; that I did something to damage you, like moving you, or digging a giant hole to replace sewer line. In the end, you never disappoint!

The bees love you. All kinds of bees, small and fat. They get drunk off your pollen. They dance around your large flowers, the pistil being a Maypole. They limbo under your anthers, leaving yellow dust all over their backs. I enjoyed your fresh flowers this year. I made them into tea. Of course I saved some for the bees. There’s enough of you to go around! The flower tea tasted green, like green beans. Fresh. I felt calm. I’m relatively calm, but I felt even more calm through a season which I set up for anxiety. Stress created and brought on by me. It’s often me creating my own stress, my own spinning thoughts and wound-up circular mind. Do the bees circle your petals as if walking a labyrinth? Walking in circles to ease the mind. Spinning, to stop the mind from doing so.

Your flowers slow and fade come mid-September, shifting energy into fruits which fall in October. I never harvested your fruit before. I’m familiar with your cousin, Passiflora edulis. I thought you would ripen the same. It took years and a conversation with friends to learn that you don’t ripen purple! A basket of your fruit now sits on my table, waiting for the right dimples to form. The juiciness comes with more patience and is shown by those dimples I’ll make a syrup with you. A syrup for my cocktails. Maybe for some ice cream. Maybe a glaze for pork, or a bread pudding. Usually cocktails. I used too much sugar this try.

You fell in a summer storm one year. That storm took down a lot, trees, electricity, our business (temporarily), our sanity. You’re safe from the north winds of winter, but only your skeleton will remain. You don’t like colder weather and shorter days. Your leaves begin to yellow. I leave you there as shelter for birds, insects and any other small bodies that can still use you. Praying mantises love hanging out in there. Egg sacks stay all winter. I harvested enough leaves during summer to keep myself calm during winter into late spring, when you rise again.

They call you passionflower not because you’re an aphrodisiac. I beg to differ. You’ve helped me fall in love with purple, my garden, scents. You covered my bathroom window. A perfect screen to keep out the summer heat and peeping Toms. Your scent wafted in and filled the house with dusty, floral, powdery magic. Just sweet enough and just musky enough for my middle-aged nose. A perfect middle note. Not too light, not too bouncy, not too heavy. Balanced. You’ve made me fall in love with fresh herb tinctures. It feels more like summer, moist, warm, free, not harsh. You were my first subject to get back into sketching, drawing, art besides photography. A muse perhaps.

These are my first sketches in years. Thank you, passionflower! 💜💚