Last spring when my spring orchid (cymbidium goeringii) bloomed, I was so happy—it was its first year in my house, and my first time to see its blossom in person.
Chinese people, especially the literate ones, have been singing praises of this type of spring orchid for too many centuries, which made it be a symbol of purity, beauty, and self-esteem. I often heard people talk about its fragrance; out of curiosity and meanwhile as a home gardener who had a keen sense of all types of scents, no doubt that this species had become my pursuit.
Though it wasn’t hard to get one in China, here in the USA I had to make much more effort. Finally, I purchased one online named Song-Mei (the cultivar) which bloomed one flower early last March. Observing that plant every day, I think I eventually figured out why it was ranked so high among all the other flowers in Chinese’s culture: Its evergreen leaves are long and slim, supple yet leathery, arching gracefully; and the three thick petals of its blossom are colored in a bright yet humble (when against its emerald leaves) pea green with white trim on the edge, while the heart of the blossom (which is also called “the tongue”) is snow-white, dotted with scarlet.
About the scent, as modest as the appearance of its blossoms, it is mellow and mature like aged wine in oak barrels, or like the taste of raw Pu-er tea the tealeaves of which have been naturally fermented over years. No wonder that Confucius called it “the scent of kings”, and Chinese people consider it “the fragrance for gentlemen”.
In spite of the fact that it offered me only one single flower, which in fact hung on the scape more than one month and was still fragrant at the end (I was too greedy to cut the flower off), it fascinated me greatly.
For it, I translated an ancient Chinese poem into English and made a few sketches:
“This orchid is like
A discreet lady,
Too proud to present,
Her rare beauty.
Hides deep among grasses,
Yet is given away by her fragrance.”
When the blossom finally faded, I made my wish: I would transplant it into a real stone pot as long as it would bloom next spring. And when it’s time to work on my new season’s embroidery designs, without hesitation I picked my orchid flowers (Lucky Orchid). Now my spring/summer garments are done, the blooming season has returned, but there’s no sign of flowers at all! Though the two little red buds still shyly peek out at the roots, they haven’t swelled; and the size of the plant has doubled since last spring due to a lot of new growth.
This plant is definitely happy, just too stingy with flowers. I know that this type of spring orchid is always fussy; they are native to warm (in winter) yet cool (in summer) mountain areas in China, while the climate where I am living now is too cold in winter and too hot and dry in summer. I was prepared for its fussiness, that’s why I watered it with rain water only and fed it with organic fertilizer; I carried it sometimes several times a day just to give it the right amount of sunshine or shade. Without giving me even one flower to show its gratitude, I feel it betrayed me.
Or perhaps because last June I accidentally left it in the sun for several days during my trip to the south so it was unhappy? Or was it because the winter was too cold and too long so it decided not to flower? Or simply just because I spoiled it? “Then why not just give it away? Give it to someone who can tend it better, or lives in a more suitable area.” Seeing me upset, my husband suggested.
The problem is, I can’t. Despite the fact that it’s very picky, fussy, hard to please, I still admire it—it’s just like a proud moody girl, teasing you around all the time; but once she gives you her innocent wonderful smile, you can forgive everything she did to you.
Alas! If one thing is too easy to get, we usually won’t cherish it. So I guess pursuing the fussy ones is just part of human nature. Will it reward my devotion with more flowers?