Of a triangular, dark green, corrugated leaf, of a delicate, jewel-toned flower in cobalt blue, calyces of plummy purple.
You bring it home, where it sprawls, hides its flowers, sprawls some more, and starts numerous fights with its neighbors. So you cut it back, whereupon, in a sulk, it refuses to flower.
You begin to pretend indifference, to care for it less, and then ultimately to care not at all.
You say, S. semiatra doesn’t do well for me, and file it under “doesn’t do well,” a neutral category, essentially blameless for all concerned, and move on, hardly bruised by a fleeting encounter with this denizen of the Sierra Madre del Sur. And, really, what else can you expect from a plant that doesn’t even have a common name, a cherished folk name? Obviously, not many lived with it long enough to get chummy.
Decades roll by. By chance you see the closeup again of exquisite rugose leaf and two-toned flower. There’s a faint chorus of garden harpies in your head crying no! no! But there’s that closeup beckoning you, and the harpies are soon drowned out by your thumping heart and they recede, but not before first raising the alarm. So now you’re on the alert.
You bring it home. You watch this salvia warily, waiting for the “troubles” to begin at any moment. Ah, yes, that sprawl! Memories flood back of its wayward idiosyncrasies, the bitter disappointment. So many plants have passed through the garden in two decades that it now seems a promiscuous blur, one long horticultural bender. So many good plants tried and discarded, seemingly in a race. To and for what, who can say? And it’s impossible to avoid the conclusion that the garden has not necessarily been the better for the endless variety.
So this time you watch the little salvia calmly, knowing it is not a personal rebuke if a plant cannot fulfill its needs in your garden. But it’s possible you just didn’t watch closely enough before, always in a rush, thinking there would be yet more and more plants to discover, to fail with. Decades later, you know this isn’t so, that the quest is finite.
And somehow, strangely enough, the quest has now changed from finding the next jewel to understanding the needs of those few with the best chance of flourishing in your garden. It’s very clear now you won’t be able to find all the jewels, only a very few, and if you keep rushing along you might miss those willing to grow for you if you’d just watch quietly and wait.
So you wish to sprawl, do you? Well, why don’t I plant you close to the pathway, where your wild ways will bother no one. But you’re getting in such a tangle now, and I do so want to see your flowers. Let’s prop you up on this wrought iron plant stand, shall we? It’s never been of much use elsewhere. Why, how clever of you to drape so fetchingly!
Hello, little friend. What shall I call you? Ah, ‘El Perdido,’ the Lost One (almost).
