60: (June 2024)
When we moved into our home 30 years ago, I knew virtually nothing about gardening. But just days after moving in, we filled in a dilapidated built-in pool in our backyard with dirt. A layer of manure was added with the hope that it would essentially become a gigantic subterranean flowerpot; thus my love affair with gardening began.
I quickly became enamored with the glorious shapes and colors of flowers. Over these past three decades, I ‘took in’ anyone’s castoffs that were deemed by their former caretakers as too invasive, the wrong color, too finicky, etc.; I didn’t care about any of that, happy to tuck them into the ground here and there, welcoming any bit of flora that filled the largely vacant expanse of soil. When I had no more room in the ‘swimming pool’ garden, I turned big portions of the lawn into additional flower beds. The rainbow of colors in the garden, the shapes of leaves, and the way light plays with blossoms and foliage were newfound delights that reached deep into my soul, so I kept creating more spaces for flowers to thrive.
I was recently weeding around a peony bush, a castoff given to me a few years ago by a friend who wasn’t thrilled with it for reasons I cannot recall. How lucky for me, because I absolutely adore it. It has rather large, white blossoms with egg yolk-yellow centers that reach up to the sun with what I can only imagine is joy. When I moved some of its foliage to pull up a weed, I was startled by a spectacular bloom that was completely hidden from view, sheltered by a plethora of greenery—a reminder that beauty doesn’t exist for others to enjoy or appreciate: it exists for its own sake. Here was a stunning blossom that would have lived and died unnoticed by any human had I not moved those lower leaves. Beauty for beauty’s sake.
How fortunate I am to have this life, to live in a place where I can garden, to live in a place that is safe and knows peace. What a contrast to the realities that I read about and view in the news. What choice do I have but to be ever more conscious of practicing gratitude in the face of being a spectator to other people’s horrors?
Multiple realities, existing simultaneously. Yet this floral beauty exists. So I will continue to cultivate a garden and peer under leaves for treasures that may be hidden from the world at large, just waiting to be discovered.
40: (June 2004)
I let my dogs out at 5:30 this morning. It rained and thundered all night long, and the world had finally quieted down, emerging gray and moist and misty in the early morning light.
Walking outside in my garden, I discovered that hummingbirds are early risers. Never before had I seen so many at one time, nor had I seen hummingbirds perched on branches in total stillness. The inactivity lasted only a few seconds at a time, but it was a delight to observe them this way, however briefly. Some were diligently working on the honeysuckle in my arbor, which is growing in a wild tangle with my grapes, like a garden-trellis Afro. Some were working on the weigela, dipping over licorice-scented mint, lily-of-the-valley, and the occasional pumpkin plant. Many other types of birds were singing in the forest trees that surround the garden, like a circle of protective grandmothers.
Yes, this is what we have been waiting for through months and months of cold and snow: this morning. This morning of beauty so rich, so sensuous with color, scent, and sound that I feel drenched—saturated with the hope and sweetness that is spring.
Ten years ago, when we moved into this house, I went to sleep on winter nights dreaming of complex garden designs, color patterns, and textures. What actually happened was that I found I rarely had the heart to pull something up that had self-sown, so now everything is growing everywhere in random chaos. And I love it. It is a happy garden, and I am happy in it; it is a wonderfully symbiotic relationship, and this morning I took my turn at being fed and nourished.
Then one of my dogs pulled me out of my reverie by rolling on a dead thing. It was a small dead thing, like a squashed, gooey slug, but still, it spoiled the mood. We went inside, and it started raining again. It was as if I had been given a little miracle window into the day—a chance to be a character in a secret garden, where time stood still, and the rain suspended itself around that patch of earth for a few brief moments. It was 6 a.m. and time to wake the children and start the morning routine. I think I’ll try waking up a little early tomorrow, too.
60-40:
Capturing a flower’s true beauty is beyond my photographic skills, but I had to at least make an attempt to visually convey the overabundance of grace in form, color, and texture that I am privileged to experience in my backyard. Here is my favorite pink peony, the weigela that still continues to delight the hummingbirds (some 20 years and counting), and one of those insanely joyful white peonies that dares anyone to posit that the world is not an inherently lovely place:
60-40 