Meditation on a white amaryllis

I wanted to plant an amaryllis bulb in time to bloom for the holidays. But I bought and planted it late, after Christmas in fact. I watered it faithfully, and after several weeks, last Wednesday my amaryllis bloomed.

It takes patience to wait for blossoms. For weeks you water the bulb in the pot, with no apparent result. The bulb's dry, homely neck and shoulders sit above the soil, and you're convinced nothing will ever come of it. Then, maybe four weeks in, a chartreuse tongue appears at the top of the bulb. Quickly, it seems, the stem grows. In just a few days it reaches eighteen inches. Then for another week or two, four chrysalis-like buds emerge from the very top of the stem and prepare to open. At last, one at a time, each bud flowers, facing east, south, west and north, like blades of a helicopter. The orbit of blooms is worth the long wait.

I would like to propagate a bulb. This requires even more patience. You must pollinate the pistil with the pollen on the stamens, then wait for seeds to form in the ovary. After removing, drying and planting seeds, it takes three years for bulbs that will flower to grow.

This is one of those areas of life where I ask, if someone else didn't do this for me (take care of propagating plants and bulbs so I can just plant them), would I know how to do it? I have one lifetime (maybe?). In this era of technology, what fundamental survival skills do I know? If all the computers crashed, what then? If I couldn't buy groceries, could I grow enough to sustain myself? If no one else repaired our mechanical gadgets, could I?

Though I may never have to depend on myself for some of this know-how, it is gratifying to learn at least a few such life lessons, to be more connected. My Donald, who knows how to do so many things, is patient with me as I grow.