The Enduring Beauty of Hollyhocks

Out past the old wooden porch, on both sides of the arbour, where the path bends and the light lingers a little longer in the first blush of morning, the hollyhocks are blooming. Tall and unapologetic, they rise like candle flames from the earth, pink, plum, coral, and cream, leaning toward the sky as if remembering something ancient. They are not tame. They are not delicate. They are beautiful in the way of elders and matriarchs: rooted, resilient, and generous.

These are not garden centre hollyhocks. They come with a story. Years ago, a stretch of public path in a Oakville was slated for reconstruction, sidewalks to be dug up, soil turned over, wild things displaced. My aunt and uncle, both with hearts tuned to beauty and the quiet persistence of things, gathered seeds from the hollyhocks growing wild along that threatened edge. They brought them here to FoxHaven and we pressed them into the soil. Ever since, these tall, old-soul flowers have returned, year after year, in lavish bloom. Sometimes they bloom pastel. Soft and tender. Other-times they bloom crimson and midnight black. Bold and unapologetic. I never know what palette the year will bring. It attune myself to the message.

I like to think the hollyhocks remember. That the story is stored in the seed. That somehow, in their flowering, they carry the imprint of rescue and relocation, of being seen and spared and given new ground in which to grow.

It is the dog daze of summer now. These are mostly hot, heavy days where time melts a little at the edges, and the air seems to hum with fatigue and fecundity. Everything slows. The birdsong is lazier, the bees drunk on nectar, the grasses golden and curling with thirst. Even the wind, when it comes, seems reluctant. It is the season of iced tea and garden hats, of midday shadows and bare feet on warm flagstones.

At FoxHaven, the summer months do not arrive with calendars. They arrive with blossoms. First, the peonies: fat and fragrant, bursting with a kind of bridal abundance. Then the day-lilies, golden and insistent, reminding us that joy does not last forever and that beauty often blooms just for a day. After them, the hollyhocks tower, holding the baton of summer with stately grace. The hydrangeas follow, cool and composed, and finally, the sunflowers: radiant, unapologetic suns rooted in soil, faces lifted and beaming. There is an archive of wisdom whispering in the garden.

Each bloom announces the season not in words, but in presence. In form and fragrance. In colour and curve. Together they offer a kind of liturgy of the land. A cycle of beauty that does not ask us to understand so much as to remember. To notice. To be astonished. To yield. We do well to heed their wisdom. We do well to accept what they offer.

Standing beside the hollyhocks this morning, I found myself listening. Not with my ears, but with something deeper. These flowers were rescued, re-rooted, and reborn. Doesn’t this say something true about all of us. That we may be displaced, but not destroyed. That beauty returns when the ground is willing. That the soul will always try to bloom.

There’s something delightfully cheeky about hollyhocks, too. For all their elegance, they have always had a humble and practical side. In the days before indoor plumbing, hollyhocks were often planted to screen the outhouse. Their height made them excellent modesty-keepers, and they offered a bit of grace and colour to a place more functional than picturesque. In some communities, they were called “outhouse flowers,” and passersby could locate the necessary by simply looking for the tallest blooms on the property.

And yet, even there, even in service of privacy and practicality, hollyhocks managed to dignify. To beautify. To bloom where no one expected them to. Somehow waste and wonder whispering in harmony.

That may be their secret gift: they do not discriminate in their offerings. They bloom beside picket fences and compost heaps. They rise along ruins and garden gates. They do not require perfection, only space. They bless whatever ground they’re given. I strive for this attitude.

If I’ve learned anything from the seasons here, it’s that we do not need as much as we think we do. A little sun. A little rain. A place to root. And the company of other flowers, blooming in their own time. That may be all we truly need.

And perhaps, like the hollyhocks, we too are here not simply to survive, but to offer beauty. We are called to stand tall when the winds blow. To bloom unafraid of height or colour. In this way we remind the world that something enduring is still unfolding, petal by petal, season by season.

Right here at the edge of the garden. Right here at the edge of the world.