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
Today I’m joining up for Five Minute Friday over at Gypsy Mama for the word prompt: Roots.
This is my first time joining and possibly my first time ever
sharing something that I wrote five minutes and didn’t edit. Although,
in the spirit of honesty, I have to say that I did just go and change
several I’s in “iris” to lower case. I couldn’t help myself.