The Iris has become my life flower. It started when I told Dan’s grandmother about the irises that my mom had given me from my growing home when they were getting ready to move.
Now, I say, “Oma, I need some irises.” . We head out to her yard and she gets irises for me. The funny thing is that I have never seen her irises blooming in her yard; I’ve never been there in the right season. As we wander, she tells me, “ this one is such a dark purple that it looks black” or “this one is light purple with yellow streaks.”. Whichever I choose, she sinks her shovel in and separates a section. She doesn’t handle the roots with much care, she just breaks and pulls until she has what she wants.
I didn’t believe her the first time she handed me those bundles, I was going to take them on a plane and it would be two weeks before I could plant them. “They’ll grow.” She said. And they did. Each time we’ve moved, torn up roots, and planted Oma’s irises, the roots form and flowers bloom.
The roots of the iris grow in a mass. And they create a larger clump of beautiful blossoms. But, eventually if they aren’t separated and transplanted, they get weak and they start to die. When the roots are severed, it looks so messy and that first season doesn’t see any blooms. But then, the following year, the blossoms show up. They remind me that sometimes roots have to be separated to grow. That a new environment is sometimes needed to thrive. And so the life of the iris speaks to me.
Today I'm joining up for Five Minute Friday over at Gypsy Mama for the word prompt: Roots.