Dirt and dahlias offer calm, even hope, during dark days

Sometimes I wonder about the ethics of growing dahlias. With so much undone in the world, so many unfed or lonely, so much grief and chaos, is it right to be out here gently weeding, snipping, propping and watering something with no practical or edible value — something that will not change anyone’s mind or behavior?

A chat with my Amish 102-year-old uncle this week helped my perspective. When the world feels frightening and insane, it’s good to talk to a very old person who has survived terrible times, is full of faith and hope, and still works in his flower beds.

My dahlia hobby began six years ago with five tubers in a flower bed. That September, I had to leave them and my family behind to take care of my dying father in Minnesota. When my daughter sent me a photo of the first bloom on a plant, it gave me hope.

Every year since, I’ve expanded the project, since dahlias are like fabric: people give you more. Now I have at least 17 varieties in a large bed. I discard the catalog names and give them my own — Baby Cheeks for a little pink and yellow puffball, Freisia for a lovely fuchsia specimen that reminds me of my late friend Freida, and Amyellow for a sunny variety my daughter gave me.

I plant the tubers in May. They take their time establishing a leafy bush, then bloom in July and keep producing until the first frost as long as they’re watered about twice a week. The tubers can be left in well-drained soil over the winter, but I usually dig them up and store them in tubs of peat moss to be divided and replanted in the spring. Some people fertilize with bone meal, but I don’t bother, and unlike other types of flowers, dahlias overlook my faults and bloom prolifically.

I stand among them and instantly feel the stress dissipating. Some are as tall as I am, the flowers on their straight stalks reaching up and dancing slowly in the breeze, just for me. Their petals arrange themselves in a delightful Fibonacci sequence, spiraling outward, both mathematically precise and beautiful.

When my everyday life has dilemmas and unsolvable issues, I appreciate that dahlia care is clear and defined. This one needs a stake and twine to prop it up, those need to be deadheaded, and they all need to be sprayed for bugs.

Surely dahlias justify their existence by being inexpensive therapy.

My business-minded husband thinks of ways I could make money off my flowers. One summer, I tried selling bouquets at a stand by the road. Almost immediately, this removed all the fun, so I went back to enjoying them and giving them away. I let the neighbors come pick all they want, and I donate countless bouquets to food banks and the fresh-produce table at church.

And, of course, I have arrangements in the house, bursts of color on tables and counters.

I needed hours of dahlia time last week when the world seemed especially dark, my news feed bringing far too long a list of death, disaster and destruction. As always, the physical work, the dirt below, and the colorful flowers calmed and restored.

The call from Uncle Johnny was equally helpful. “Dorcas! How are you? I had your name on my list here, and I just thought I would call. How’s the family? And Paul, how is he doing?”

I don’t think Johnny heard my replies, because at 102 he has lost much of his hearing. But he heard me ask him what he’s been up to, because he replied, “I still mow my big yard and take care of my flower beds. That’s about it.”

He sounded sad about his limitations, as he had farmed all his life and was still operating a small business at age 99, spraying out the thorny “goat heads” in the neighbors’ fence rows there in central Kansas.

But, Johnny said, rallying back to gratitude, he appreciates his son and daughter-in-law being willing to live in his basement so he can stay in his own house.

“That’s wonderful!” I shouted. The conversation continued for a few minutes, our hollered sentences flying by each other and not making much sense, really, except to communicate that we are happy to be uncle and niece and to connect again.

I ended the call and thought about everything Uncle Johnny has lived through. As a young man in Oklahoma, he survived the Dust Bowl and the Depression, followed by a farm deferment during World War II when he and his dad did the work of four or five men.

Later, he lived through turbulent political times, more wars, personal griefs, and massive changes in lifestyle and technology. He’s learned to use a cellphone, which tells me even the Old Order Amish can adapt, judiciously and cautiously.

And now, he prioritizes being outdoors, hands in the dirt, making things grow. He cannot change a broken world, but he can pray for it, and he can go inside and wash his hands and call his niece in Oregon to ask how she’s doing.

I have a feeling his work matters, mysteriously, more than we can imagine, to set things right in a slanted and sideways society.

A biblical quote comes to mind. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.” I love that Jesus endorsed flowers.

At 63, I still have people to feed, messages to send, problems to solve, and situations to change. But I consider the lilies and hope I can always keep on growing color and beauty from brown dirt, and who knows which of my efforts will actually have the biggest impact on this chaotic world.