The orchid arrived without a card. Like the proverbial pair of socks, where two go in the washer and one comes out — the card came up missing when Amy gathered the plant for delivery.
So what I know is that the orchid was given to me by Amy’s mother Barbara — that it came while I was out furniture shopping with my aunt and sister — and that my husband, who accepted the gift on my behalf, did not think it important to ask for reasons why.
No mystery here. He never asks. Nor does he speculate. This man I married, who in all ways but this lives in the “real’ world rather than a fairy-tale world of make-believe, prefers to think people will tell him all he needs to know about matters of a personal nature — in spite of an entire married life of evidence to the contrary.
Ginny had a baby. Boy or Girl? Forgot to ask. . Mike’s getting married. Where are they registered? Don’t know. I’ll ask. .Sometimes, as it happens, the generic, ‘just-right-for-all-occasions’ gift becomes a perfect gift to give. And sometimes, the perfect gift becomes what the recipient would never buy for herself — a lovely white orchid, eight blooms long — that is not only beautiful, but that has inspired me to expand my gardening knowledge in a way unforeseen. How much light? How much water, and so on? For days now, like a Goldilocks of indoor gardening, I’ve searched for the perfect spot for my new orchid to call home.
The den was good since it was in a highly visible space; too bad the light was weak. It sat on the kitchen counter for an afternoon, before I worried that the cabinet doors would lop off its blooming head. The utility room? Too hidden. My husband’s office — too full. The dining room? Too dark. Living room? Too hot. After days of looking, the ‘just-right’ spot ended on top of a nightstand that offered an abundance of soft light — and as living within mystery so perfectly happens — the nightstand belongs to the person who has no need to ask for reasons why.
I’ve come to appreciate how a lack of curiosity — that once would have bothered me to no end — has proved to expand a single gift to become many. Was it a Christmas gift? Why yes, I did receive the orchid during the season of Christmas. Was it a sympathy flower, a way of expressing sorrow at the loss of my mother-in-law — why yes, this too makes perfect sense. Was Barbara’s gift a way of expressing thanks, for the few tasks my husband and I took on related to the wedding reception? Well, yes — why not. All these answers hold merit. Yet, after days of seeking, I’ve settled on a reason less likely but more generic — one that covers Christmas to sympathy to thanks: that of friendship – and that I received the gift of a white orchid at all — becomes answer enough.
But what of that other pair of questions tossing around in the laundry, like — Will Amy ever find the missing card? — And will my husband ever ask why the orchid has come to live on his nightstand? — to these I offer a single answer: I hope not.
an everyday life 
Such a beautiful plant. My aunt was given an orchid recently, and she tells me she waters it by putting two ice cubes on it once a week. I don’t necessarily recommend the practice, not knowing a thing about orchids, but that’s what she was told, so I’ll tell you.
Your story as a whole reminds me of the phrase, “the essential comedy of human relations”. I don’t know exactly why, except that men are funny creatures.
Of course, Stephen Hawking was asked on the occasion of his 70th birthday if there was anything in the universe – anything in all of time or space – he felt incapable of understanding. “Oh, yes”, he said. “The mind of a woman.” Now that’s funny. I wonder if Stephen Hawking would ask where the orchid came from? I’ll bet not.
And to enjoy such beauty in January become another gift!
I, too, have heard of the ice-cube method, even though I know next to nothing about orchid care. But rather than choosing the icy route, I’m taking the plant on a weekly trip to the nearest faucet — for now, our bathroom — where I drench it until water runs out the bottom of its pot. It’s the only way to know when I’ve given it enough. It seems to thrive in spite of my inexperience.
Love your Stephen Hawking quote about the mind of a woman, though I know my husband would love it more. But the funny thing about living for twenty-five years with one who is my complete opposite, is that I’ve come to appreciate his way of thinking, quirks and all. In the case of the white orchid, I’ve come to like not knowing the ‘why’ since having the knowledge would draw boundaries to cut-off all other equally wonderful possibilities.
Writing this line makes me recall a long ago Valentines Day, when I was fourteen, when a couple of red carnations with baby’s breath were delivered from the local florist to my door. The card accompany the gift was signed, “Your Secret Admirer.” Would you believe that my not knowing the giver had me looking at every possible boy in school with fresh eyes? — could he be the one? Or him? Or what about him? Only much later did I learn the flowers were sent by my two closest male cousins. I never asked them why — whether it was a prank or out of love — but I know that their mysterious gift of flowers opened my eyes to a world of possibilities that a signed card would have closed off.
What a gift to live in mystery and our world of beauty.
Janell
Lovely flower.
It’s a wonderful gift even if the why remains a mystery.
Yes it is Viv. And I find it even more wonderful without knowing the why of it. I wonder what would happen it I were to expand this outlook to other areas of life…
Janell
I love an Orchid plant. Mine of over a dozen years that sported 16 blooms when I moved to my cottage 2 years ago – died last year and I now know why.
Upstair where it was sitting undr the ceiling heat vent. Did not realize the vent was there.
I have bought another one but do not think any will be like that prize. It survived the move of 3 homes and a year in this new cottage
I can tell, even now, you miss that long-time companion of beauty. I hope I’m as fortunate with mine as you were with yours.
It’s funny-sad how our eyes can become blind to things like heater vents — how our eyes can so easily filter out what is important to another. Of course, it’s true outside of the plant kingdom too. I fear I do this everyday with those I love most. I must pray for more sensitivity and sensibility.
The last few days, I’ve begun to wonder whether the warmth of the nearby lamp is harming my orchid. It’s lit only during evenings, but I’m still ‘watching’ — waiting to see how the plant will react. There’s so much to know about this new living thing — I hope it’s a patient teacher.
I’m in full “aw, shucks” mode, here. Those were some pretty kind words you left over at Arti’s. I left a little comment over there for the both of you.
I happened upon these words of Leonard Bernstein today in another blog, and my goodness – they certainly resonate. I think you’ll like them, too:
“Any great art work … revives and readapts time and space, and the measure of its success is the extent to which it makes you an inhabitant of that world – the extent to which it invites you in and lets you breathe its strange, special air.”
Change out “art work” for “work of literature”, and I have to say – I believe the good maestro has it!
Very nice quote. Thanks for sharing. And as for the words left at Arti’s — just a case of me calling ’em like I see ’em.
But…would you believe my writing class was cancelled — the one that has had me reading the book by Robert McKee? Well, I’m in the regrouping mode. Perhaps I’ll take that Ernest Hemingway class instead. But no time now to think I’m heading east to help Sis with that painting project of hers. Two more days before the finish line. I hope.
Janell