You may not believe me when I say that the late W.O. Mitchell is largely responsible for the path my life has taken,! don’t blame you for rolling your eyes and thinking, just maybe I need a change in my medication. But wait, let me tell you my story.
It began on a Sunday morning in the mid-seventies. Our habit was to listen to CBC Radio. On that particular wintery weekend morning, we heard an interview with the popular author, W.O. Mitchell, who spoke enthusiastically about his retirement years and the pleasure he experienced gardening all year long in his greenhouse. He mentioned the orchids he grew.
Caught up in the everyday tasks of motherÂhood, his words floated over me. My husband’s antennae were far more finely tuned to the topic than mine. “That’s what we’re going to have,” he stated. ”We’re going to build a greenhouse!”
I ignored him. After twenty years together, I recognized that my partner’s dreams were just that, dreams, and would probably never be spoken of again. If I just kept quiet, I was sure this brilliant idea of his would vanish. I definitely did not want a greenhouse or anything else for that matter, that would translate into greater responsibility, more work for me. Forget it! Our eldest was just going off to university. I could barely sniff the end of sock sorting, lunch preparation and chauffeuring. No greenhouse for me! But I knew it was only talk. I didn’t worry.
When his dream threatened to become my nightmare, I made it quite clear to my hubby that a greenhouse did not fit in with my life plan. A nice laundry room would be welcome if he felt the need for a project; leisure and travel were my priorities. He didn’t hear me.
The greenhouse was built in spite of my protestation. I feigned disinterest in the building glitches (and there were many). I wept as I gazed at the huge mound of mud on our once neat lawn during excavation. I truly tried very hard to ignore, to tum my back on the whole thing. Instead, while my husband chuckled, my firmly embedded homemaker instincts compelled me to make the completed new addition an integral part of our home. I couldn’t help myself. Then came the orchids.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve never cared much for orchids. I’m strictly a daisy and lily-of-the-valley girl. But that first winter I bought an orchid plant for our greenhouse. I don’t have a clue why I bought it because, as a teenager, I always told people that I hated diamonds, orchids, Cadillacs and furs. “They’re sultry, sexy and sinister,” I would announce, seduced by alliteration. By the time I reached twenty, I had certainly changed my tune regarding diamonds and believed that the bigger the rock, the better. I held my ground on the other three.
At forty I realized that I was mature enough to welcome a single lovely Cattleya into our new greenhouse. Orchid cultivation was fascinating. I thought I might even adopt a few more. Orchids, I learned, become addictive. Neither my husband nor I expected to be swept away by our mutual interest in orchids. Within two years more than twelve hundred plants filled our lovely glass house. Our lives evolved around the plants and their magic. The study of their propagation provided us with a whole new language, Orchidaceae, which we spoke like Latin scholars.
Looking back, I know that my life changed because of the greenhouse and the joy I experienced there. Everything changed. Instead of entertaining our friends for dinner and bridge, they now joined us for champagne brunch in the greenhouse. We spent entire weekends in our jungle paradise, listening to classical music and puttering with pots. A wonderful group of orchid-loving friends entered our lives. Travel opportunities allowed us to learn more from horticultural professionals, as well as acquire exotic specimens. We cared for our plants with all the love of doting parents, excited by each new bud, a promise of beauty. Our care was rewarded with vigorous growth and magnificent blooms. I was in• Paradise.
Those years in the greenhouse truly nourished my soul; I had never known such contentment. It was there that I first embraced the beauty of solitude. The personal spiritual strength I felt there was something I could not have acknowledged at the time.
A few years later the greenhouse doors closed. I grieved the tragedy of divorce and moved on slowly. Today I do not have a greenhouse, but the truly spiritual gains from that wonderful experience have strengthened and sustained me. I shared my passion for flowers with others for years. I hope I brought beauty into their lives. In our greenhouse, I found peace, love, strength, patience, and hope. So, thank you, W.O. Mitchell. Thank you.