That’s pretty much my life right now: irises and essays. Writing, writing, writing. Gazing out at the explosions of spring. And a lot of packing and unpacking.

Spring 2024 is a swirl of commitments–a whirlwind I got myself into. Everything seemed “doable” when it was placed on the schedule a year in advance. Still, the events are lovely, as long as I can keep up with them.

Today, taking a few minutes to sit beneath the classic Carolina blue sky (a different shade than Texas’ deep blue), I find myself drinking in the beauty of Jane’s Irises, as I like to call them. I refer a lot to my friend Jane, and if you want a measure of what a good friend can be, find one who will transform your big yard with bulbs and perennials nearly every time she visits.

The idea of gardening thrills me. My occasional efforts involve ambitious buying of plants and bushes that look gorgeous in the nursery, but whose requirements, once planted, are not always met. Of course, this is North Carolina, so things tend to grow unaided. In fact, the first spring we lived here (2019), I remember shaking my head in astonishment daily and uttering the phrase daily, “In Dallas, we had to go to the Arboretum to see so much blossoming” (or else, to the wealthy neighborhoods where landscapers make North-Central soil turn into East Texas soil).

Here, though, it all blooms right out of my humble windows, close enough to touch: rhododendrons, azaleas, camellias, gardenias (oh my, oh my), hydrangea, and wild roses. Plus, these treasures aren’t flourishing because of what I do. They were planted long ago, or maybe they just sprang up. Either way, they’re as happy as can be in this good soil.

But the irises came from Jane. And they’ve ended, albeit by proxy, a syndrome from which I long suffered: the “I meant to put those bulbs in” syndrome, leaving me annually to lament what would not blossom in spring or summer. This sentiment alternates with the “we really should have trimmed those bushes back in January” complaint.

Real gardeners don’t forget to trim. They don’t forget to plant, nor do they buy thirty bedding plants when there is room for six. Also they weed.

Thus, at a certain point in life, you have to accept that, most likely, you are not going to become a good gardener. An appreciative person who admires irises and good gardeners? Yes, that can happen.

Meanwhile, I’m about to head off to a land of verdure. In a few days, I’ll be flying to Croatia to serve as the professor on the Smithsonian Journey’s Pearls of Croatia and Slovenia tour. I tend to do this route in the fall, but sometimes also in the spring. In autumn, carts and small trucks are hauling in olives and grapes. The air smells like the herb section of a natural-foods market mixed with lavender. Views of God’s green earth more beautiful than the Adriatic coast in September cannot exist. They cannot because the human eye cannot absorb more beauty.

In the spring, a different sense of beauty abounds. Blossoms are everywhere. The freedom of blue skies and warm weather still enervates the heart. Harvest is far away. All is wrapped in youthful promise.

Everything comes into play on this route: from olive-oil tastings to discussions of Marshall Tito and the wars following the break-up of former Yugoslavia. It will be a lively time back here too, as I also participate virtually in events like my on-line classes and a delightful CiRCE On-Line conference “Teaching in Place: Education Like Your Child Belongs” on April 26th and 27th. There will be a host of your favorite speakers (including yours truly speaking about passion, enthusiasm, and the arts). We’ll also have one of the unpredictably wacky, usually insightful panels known as “Classical Education Unhinged!” So, let me keep this short today and say the light, but accurate, phrase, “I’ll see you on the other side.”