Several years ago I planted a hydrangea in a pot. For the first few years it grew well and then suddenly seemed to have had enough of life and gave up.
There were no flowers and really no leaves to speak of. Just some stumpy brown wood.
Being a haphazard kind of gardener I meant to clear it out of the pot and throw it away but didn’t get round to it. So the pot got pushed under the undergrowth, like crumbs under a rug, and forgotten about.
I never thought to water it, because why water a plant that’s dead? And so for the last couple of years it’s rested there, forgotten and unloved, like vague memories of dreams once had.
This summer I made the effort to cut back some of the greenery that was taking over the garden after all the rain and I noticed something pink poking through.
And the more I pushed aside the jungle, the more pink appeared. It was the left-for-dead hydrangea, flowering it’s little heart out.
It made me think about those dreams that have been pushed aside and forgotten. What would it take to make them flourish now? Because, somewhere underneath the busyness of life, unloved and neglected, they’re still there, waiting for that deluge of rain to spring forth into life.
Somehow I have the feeling that it really is never too late. And if there’s a dream that once lived within your heart, I wonder what would happen if it had one more chance and you gave it a burst of attention and nurturing now?