As winter turned to spring a year ago, I looked at the flattened form of a St. John’s Wort bush I had planted the year before. Leafless and listless, it seemed utterly broken by the weight of the season’s snow. Looking at that plant laid so low, I was sure that I’d have to dig it up and replace it with something fresher. But over the month passed as the ever warmer rays of the sun shone upon it, it straightened up, sprouted new leaves and grew more robustly than before.
After another trip around the sun, I find myself looking at the specimen of St. John’s Wort, utterly decrepit again:
With the experience of another year, I won’t be fooled this time around. Recovery will come. There is something held in common by St. John’s Wort and humanity. Like that lowly bush, we find a way to bloom again when laid low, even as we extend our roots more deeply, strengthening our xylem and phloem, gaining sustenance from dirt, sprouting little tiny green leaves, blooming with fuzzy little yellow flowers when we get hot, being harvested for anti-depressant tinctures and reaching an approximate height and width of 3 feet, and benefiting from occasional drip irrigation in drier climes.