You hold in your hand not a tiny, hard pebble, but my future. I am a Nerine seed, dark and fleshy, encased in a papery black wing. This wing, a samara, is my vessel. I am not like a dust-like orchid seed; I have substance. My very form is a clue to my needs. I cannot be sown deeply like a bean or left to dry out for long. I carry within me a miniature embryo, a complete genetic blueprint for the stunning amaryllis relative I am destined to become, but my journey from your palm to a flowering bulb is a long one, measured not in weeks, but in years. It is a path that requires immense patience.
To awaken me, you must understand my origins. In my native South African habitat, I would fall to the ground in late summer or autumn, just as the cool, moist rains begin. My fleshy coat contains chemical inhibitors that prevent me from sprouting immediately in unfavorable conditions. You must break this dormancy. Sow me fresh, as soon as you can acquire me, for my viability decreases if I am allowed to desiccate. Place me on the surface of a very well-draining, gritty seed compost mix, perhaps barely covered with a sprinkle of sand. The warmth of a late summer day and consistent moisture will mimic the seasonal rains, signaling that it is time. I will drink, swell, and send out a primary root, committing to life.
My first leaves will be simple grass-like blades. Do not be fooled by their humble appearance. All of my energy is focused not on flowering, but on a singular, critical task: building my bulb. Each leaf I produce photosynthesizes, sending sugars down to my base to slowly, painstakingly swell it into a storage organ. This process is achingly slow. I will need to be grown in a well-protected environment for my first few years—a cold frame or a pot in a sheltered location is ideal, as a hard freeze could be fatal to my juvenile form. Keep my soil lightly moist during my growth periods but never soggy, as my nascent bulb is prone to rot.
I will not flower for you for a minimum of three to five years. In some cases, it may take even longer. This is the ultimate test for a gardener. Each year, I will go through my natural cycle. My foliage will grow, then yellow and die back as I enter my summer dormancy. During this rest period, you must keep me almost completely dry. As the cooler temperatures of autumn return, I will break dormancy again, and you may notice my bulb has grown slightly larger. This cycle of growth, dormancy, and incremental expansion is repeated year after year until I finally achieve a sufficient size. Only then will I have the stored energy to risk producing a flower stalk.
When that long-awaited autumn finally arrives, you will see a stout, naked scape push from my bulb, unbeknownst to you, a genetic individual unlike any other. Because I was grown from seed, I am unique. I may not be an exact replica of my parent plant; my color could be a different shade of pink, my petals narrower, or my form more exquisite. The flower I present to you is the culmination of your years of care and patience—a one-of-a-kind creation that you have nurtured into existence from its very beginning.
