Minimalist Growth -

時知らず: The Quiet Grace of Unseasonal Bloom

Many years ago, a Japanese seafood aficionado taught me about Tokishirazu Sake (時知らず鮭). Literally meaning “salmon not knowing the season,” this fish is highly sought after in Hokkaido because it returns to its spawning river in the wrong season—spring instead of autumn.

Unlike autumn salmon, the flesh of the Tokishirazu is highly prized by connoisseurs for being rich and full of delicious fat. Though I’m not a seafood enthusiast and can’t recall the price, I have always found the phrase Tokishirazu (時知らず） beautiful.

The point of this post, however, is not salmon, but my Clematis montana ‘Elizabeth’. This vine normally flowers only in late spring, but this autumn, it is blossoming again. It’s a handful of flowers scattered across the vines that are currently wrapping around the stair railing. I have been meaning to cut it back, but my laziness has prevailed, and online literature suggests against pruning this variety anyway, as it blooms on old wood.

Clematis Elizabeth blooming in the autumn — 時知らず Clematis montana ’Elizabeth’ blooming out of season in autumn

I’ve grown tired of gardening. Over the past five years, I tried to cultivate various colourful clematis varieties in the same spot, aiming for continuous bloom from spring to autumn. Most of those efforts failed due to mislabeling or the plants simply not surviving. Only the unruly ‘Elizabeth’ variety remains, with its relatively short two-to-three-week blooming period.

Yet, these unexpected, Tokishirazu blossoms are giving me second thoughts about cutting the vine back. While I no longer appreciate the plant with the enthusiasm of its first bloom, this quiet, unseasonal persistence compels a different reaction. When the time comes to prune, I think I will be gentle.

The Peaceful Discipline of Neglect

I used to be intensely focused on gardening and caring for plants, acquiring numerous houseplants during the pandemic. I was excited to watch new leaves unfurl, built shelves, installed plant lights, and observed their movement toward the sun. Over time, through life events, sickness, and new interests, my intense focus faded. I also began questioning the wisdom of keeping tropical plants indoors in temperate climates. While I maintained minimal care, many of the plants quietly died—and I was, frankly, relieved. Of eight types of peperomia I once owned, only one survived, and only because I gave it away.

Yet, many of my plants survived my neglect and seem to thrive despite it. Many of these are trailing varieties that have stretched themselves over meters. They grow silently across the room and often droop down into inconvenient spots, forcing me to pin their extending leaves to the wall or ceiling.

Watering the plants has become a chore; I no longer do it with enthusiasm, counting every new leaf or observing fresh growth. Repotting and rerooting are burdens now. But as I watch the greens quietly stretch and claim space across the room, I can’t help but admire that peaceful spirit of growth.

I change, my interests change, but the plants continue their slow, quiet, and minimalist growth—a quiet discipline that merely requires basic sustenance to persevere.