What a Fine Rose-of-Sharon

Another fall. A plaintain lily, with its chilly air, is sending out signals of snow and ice. The canna lily comes into bloom at this time, too. Its red and yellow flowers tower aloft the broad green leaves, not minding at all the deadly acrimony of fall. I used to denigrate the canna lily, denying its beauty, but now I’m ready to take back my words. Then follows the crape myrtle and the Rose-of-Sharon. In my little garden mainly of grass, they are immigrants. A few branches I got by chance were stuck in the soil, and unexpectedly they began to grow. The crape myrtle seems a little fragile, it has not flowered yet, whereas the Rose-of-Sharon had bloomed twice.

In the past, the Rose-of-Sharon looked commonplace to me. Many trees and flowers were tragically destroyed during the Cultural Revolution, but this one survived to accompany the ever so famous “royal” yellowhorn of the times, supposedly because its flowers were edible. The blossoms of the Rose-of-Sharon stood in two rows alongside the road. They had purple, red and white flower. I had never looked at them closely. But the fact that it had blossomed twice in this tiny garden in the past two year is very unusual.

When fall arrived the year before last, we were recovering from a death in the family. In those days of the Cultural Revolution, we did not have the slightest idea what would happen from moment to moment. Extremely uneasy, I took a stroll in the garden. At the time, the garden was full of knee-high weeds. Except for the two plaintain lilies, our endearing support in those times, there were two honeysuckle vines, whose little red seeds, like agate beads, hung in clusters. I had not expected to see any other color.

But all of a sudden, in the green grass, a spot of purple. I walked closer. And right there, a purple flower adorned a low green branch. It was the Rose-of-Sharon. It had bloomed, and the flower was purple.
Of the flower’s three colors, purple is the finest. Its red is not precise enouth, and the white appears redundant. What I had always longed for was the purple ones, to match the February orchid of early spring as well as the Chinese wisteria of early summer. It would fill my little garden with violet fantasies, invite breezes to blow away miseries, and allow dreams to stay.

Elated, I carefully weeded out the surrounding grass and watered it. The soil absorbed the water quickly. In the breeze, the delicate purple flower, its petals thin as cicada wings, tilted mischievously over the green wave of the grass. It was not at all aware of its own uniqueness.

Then during the past year, after four or five full moons, the little garden, which had been looted several times during the Cultural Revolution, began to suffer another ordeal. Clay, bricks, reinforced steel bars and wood were piled pell mell, and crushed all the plants under them. I had grown accustomed to such scenes, knowing there must be new beginnings after destruction. Only the waiting would be very long. And then unexpectedly in early fall, when walking near the pile of construction material, I suddenly noted a little purple flower in bloom.

My heart trembled. A solemn feeling gripped me. Half buried it still blossomed, the Rose-of-Sharon.
Half-buried, it still blossomed!

I cut across the barriers and approached to examine the little flower struggling out of the garguantian heap, its delicate petals still as thin as the wings of a cicada. It was slightly wrinkled, as if its petals had been tied up, and then had broken out again. It remained unaware of its harsh surroundings, unaware of its own uniqueness.

It appeared like the flower in a fable; holding it in the hand, one’s wishes could come true, because what one is holding is the courage to face all adversities.

The purple radiance suffused the messy construction site. The flower, bathed in a bright purple luster, rose gracefully and looked down at me with a smile.

Sure enough, now is a new beginning. This year, my little garden, after restoration, is no longer dominated by wild grass. That is how I had achieved a new appreciation of the canna lily. That stalk the Rose-of-Sharon has sprung up, and its leaves are luxuriant. But even as late as the Double Nine Festival in the fall, the Rose-of-Sharon still did not flower.

I often wander around the bush, anticipating the little flower that had once overwhelmed me.

But it never flowered again.

But even if it had, it would not be the same. Perhaps it is just as well that it remain a memory of the sorrowful days gone by.