“Speak to the Earth, and it shall teach thee.” Job 12:8

Entry 134: Gardening is a lot like Poetry

Mon, 21 May 2012 21:23:47 -0400

In thanks for the peony... hope you enjoy the poem! Thanks for sending it my way Michelle---

Peonies
by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open--
pools of lace,
white and pink--
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities--
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again--
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

Entry 133: A Mother's Day to Remember

Mon, 14 May 2012 13:31:18 -0400

Still basking in the glow of Mother’s Day this cool, gray Monday morning. The sun has just begun to creep out behind the clouds, and it is feeling and looking more like a May day now.

This past week was full of images of “mother”. A young woman, who works at the center where I swim, was crying in an empty room. I’d gone into this normally quiet space to do yoga, and couldn’t help but overhear the predicament she was in while she spoke on the phone. A single mother is often on the brink of disaster, playing a game of dominos. If one domino falls, it seems to bring down the rest in a hurry. Used car payments, broken down engines, rent money used for repairs, rent overdue, no way to get home. Exhausted after work, typically home at six. Making dinner, doing homework with kids struggling in school, each day pushing her to the edge, and then suddenly, nothing left to support the exhausting structure of her life. Endometriosis, complete hysterectomy in her early thirties. Trusting the wrong guy to help save the day; he ends up taking advantage of her. Womb barren; motherless herself; needing nurture and care.

She poured out her heart as I drove her home. I understand what it means to be a single Mom, and suddenly I was in my thirties again, hearing some of my story through her. I remembered the countless kindnesses that my daughters and I received, the grace that softened such hard places, and how a landlord allowed us to plant a garden, normalizing our lives.

Today I am married to a wonderful man who loves me and my daughters. He is a gem and a breath of fresh air. He doesn’t quite share my love of gardening, but he came to our church’s plant sale on Friday looking for me. The place was full of motherly women, who also were raising money to keep our church gardens looking their best. We realize the garden may be the first thing people notice about our church, and we hope that the new life they see here is also present on the inside. We give motherly advice: what plants work well in containers, which perennials are best in shade, which color combinations we love. People come from nearby office buildings and homes, and we feed their souls with flowers. It is an annual experience that I enjoy.

The following day after running errands, I longed for space in my own garden. “Don’t you want to go out to eat?” Dan began. “How about going to see a movie afterwards?” he tried to entice me. I fervently refused his kindness.

A garden path on the west side of the house was completely overgrown. I had cleared it a few years ago, but last summer’s heat, the weeds, my overworking elsewhere left it in complete disarray. Tonight, I was reclaiming it, as an abandoned creative project that needed my complete attention.

Isn’t it wonderful to focus on ONE thing for a change instead of multi-tasking?
I worked until dark, completely absorbed in this maternal task, proudly making my way half way down the path to the rear garden. I told my husband, this was a Mother’s Day gift he was giving me. He carried three huge loads to the compost heap for which I was grateful.

On Sunday after church, Dan and my daughters had to go to work. I relished the rainy day, and again without interruption, poured myself into cleaning the house. We all gathered for dinner, had a lovely meal that I prepared. My husband prayed, “Thank you God for all of the mothers we have known, all of the women who have nurtured us, for the hands that prepared this meal, for the women in my life.”

I stared at the pink peonies and the pale blush color of the New Dawn roses I’d picked from the garden on the table. Some Mother’s Day’s have been tough, but this one was especially sweet. The chapters of my life spilled over like drooping heavily scented peonies. Felt completely drenched in peace. If you give God enough time, and yourself enough grace to grow and heal--- the internal spiritual garden begins to match the outer one. “Mom, you seem so happy”, one of my daughters said hugging me.

At 56 years old, my adult daughters are grown and gone, and my empty, scarred womb is suddenly full and lush with new life. Isn’t this a wonder?

Entry 132: Green from the Inside Out

Mon, 7 May 2012 19:54:50 -0400

It was a spectacular week for gardening! I heard garden designer, Jon Carloftis speak at the Kenwood Country Club on behalf of the Cincinnati Horticultural Society. I visited a new brave friend, Michelle, who has purchased a historical Italianate “mansion” that she longed to save. She’s planted roses, peonies and hydrangea out front growing courage in herself as she climbs the steps. “One room at a time...” we say, seeing so much potential. Gardening buddy, Margaret stopped by to tell me how beautiful she thought my garden was, and how she would help me do some monster weeding on the west side. And then there was dear Sandy, another friend, who invited me to come to dinner to see her magnificent vegetable garden. Sandy and her partner, Gordy, appreciate wine and good food, so a potager (French, for small kitchen garden) would be the perfect fit for them.

“When I looked on your website”, she began, “I learned about a business called One Small Garden.” It ended up that Sandy had met the owner, Juliann Gardner in years past, and was so pleased to reconnect with her through gardening. Sandy and Gordy had tried growing vegetables before with some success, but not without major challenges and frustrations. So they purchased four raised bed systems complete with trellises from One Small Garden that are designed in a much larger rectangular bed with paths between them. The rich soil mixture makes it easy to grow whatever they like. Juliann came to show them how to plant their first cool weather crops.

One evening last week, we’d decided to cook some salmon and create a dinner salad, using the greens in the garden. Sandy was attracted to the names of vegetables and salad greens she planted by seed: “Drunken Woman” lettuce; “Early Wonder Tall Top” beets; “Watermelon” radish; “Black Spanish” radish; “Amish Deer Tongue” lettuce. There was spinach, fava beans, mache, Pak Choi (good for Vietnamese food); chard; “Black-Seeded Simpson” lettuce; “Freedom” lettuce that is speckled red.

There were also “French Breakfast” and “Easter Egg” radishes”, Sandy continued as we helped pick for dinner. At this my husband, whom I was trying to show the value of growing some of our own vegetables remarked, “Isn’t one kind enough?” “Hell no, Dan!” Sandy responded laughing.

How could one ever be enough in a household that celebrates culinary adventures? It’s like Christmas morning out in this garden, so I was very excited to see what we were going to throw together for dinner.

Sandy roasted a beautiful piece of salmon in an iron skillet that she gets hot first in a 350 degree oven. She uses grape seed oil in the bottom to keep the salmon from sticking (grape seed oil won’t easily burn), and adds olive oil on top. We used her fresh greens, slices of orange, avocado, smoked almonds topped off with a simple olive oil vinaigrette.

We dined outdoors on her slate covered patio, overlooking the vegetable and flower gardens and watched the sun disappear in the sky. We laughed, drank wine with dinner, caught up on the details of one another’s lives.

“We’ve never had such a good harvest before”, Sandy explained as we had seconds on that gigantic scrumptious salad. There’s something about using a raised bed with cedar wooden sides that don’t leach chemicals into your food like treated lumber would, and all in a special soil mix that Julianne recommends. It’s the perfect, easy way to grow a lot of good food in a small space. And you can really taste the “green” when it is so fresh.

You know what Ian Drury, an English rock and roll singer said, “If Elvis Presley had eaten green vegetables, he’d still be alive.” Let’s see if we can get the meat and potato lovers in our lives, rockin’ on vegetables!

To learn more about One Small Garden, click here:

Entry 131: The View from Inside

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 20:03:31 -0400

Tomorrow is the first day of May, which in 2012 looks more like the first of June. The symphony of color simply explodes from my front windows that overlook the garden. I rearranged the living room from the back of the house to the front, partly so I could watch my gardens move through the seasons more readily. As the skies darken, a possible storm moves in, and the colors pop.

A gardening buddy and dear friend of mine asked if I could come by earlier today, and help her place a new tree. I’d suggested a Japanese maple to highlight the burgundy red she so enjoys in her garden. We talked about symmetry, about balancing the weight on each side of her borders. When we went indoors for tea, I could see the maple outdoors from her windows.

How could I have forgotten? When I did some garden design work in the past, we always began from the inside. “Where are you likely to enjoy the view?” For a woman, that is often a kitchen window. But this garden has several functions. It frames the front of the house. It softens any harsh edges, and visually brings a rather tall house back toward the ground. It echoes the palette of the house in color. The design has been simplified, as my friend knows that sometime in the near future, she and her husband may be selling their house. What is the likelihood that future owners would want such an extensive garden?

From the inside, my friend was noticing how this tree would still allow the garden to be viewed from below, yet soften her view from the street like a billowy curtain. We admired the tree from indoors, thinking about how it will grow in the future, placing it so that it has room to mature.

It is this watery relationship between our inner and outer worlds that is so fascinating, especially for gardeners. Furthermore, do we want walls, fences to block out views? Do we want our neighbors to see our gardens, or offer them peeks inside, or keep our green spaces completely private?

This malleable, fluid energy between the indoors and outdoors is great fun to explore. It is as if I watch a story outside my windows enfolding each day from my house. I project myself out onto the garden with the choices I make, and it becomes like a mirror speaking back to me. What a steadying influence my garden is, like a kind friend listening to my words, opening my heart completely to it, singing back to me what I might not be able to hear.

Like the May Day baskets we used to hang on one another’s doors the first day of May, look at your garden as a gift you have given yourself. Happy May Day friends...

Entry 130: Meeting Lucille Carloftis

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 21:18:44 -0400

“I know that real contentment comes from the ability to manifest your dreams.”
--- A Beautiful Journey, by Lucille Carloftis

Last week I took a trip back to the Appalachian mountains in Kentucky to meet Lucille Carloftis, mother of renowned garden designer, Jon Carloftis. I was suddenly reminded of my junior year in college when I began an Appalachian semester at Union College in Barbourville, Kentucky. I had no idea then how turning down a semester in Paris, France to go instead to the mountains of eastern Kentucky, would have a profound and lasting effect on my life. Nor did I realize that an eventual trip, thirty six years later, would be as sweet and compelling as the first.

I had learned a lot about myself, and a whole new culture by leaving Wittenberg University that semester. I entered the beautiful world of the Appalachian Mountains and its people, many descended from the British Isles. I was one of them. We shared Scottish, English, and Welsh ancestry. They understood the longing I had for land, for the musical quality of language, of song, of the wilderness. There was deep pride, dignity, resourcefulness and creativity, a vast difference from the stereotypes of the day. I was also haunted by my first real images of poverty, hidden from the interstate. We visited Berea College, Red Bird Mission, midwives on horseback, hard working men and women who made their living off the land, some exploited by mountain top removal companies. I understood how the mountains held onto your soul. I taught school in Stinking Creek, Kentucky; experienced generosity of heart and spirit; and marveled at exquisite hand crafts: quilting, wood carving, pottery, weaving, and fell in love with the lyrics of songs passed down for generations.

“Open the window, do love do, listen to the music play for you...”

The quiet, comforting sound of Lucille’s voice, the way she drew us in with the gift of stories and laughter, helped to build a bridge in my heart that was decades old. We realized we shared some of the same friends from years past associated with Union College. I was so enchanted that I spent the whole weekend reading her memoir, A Beautiful Journey.

In 1955, the same year I was born, Lucille and her husband, Carlo Carloftis, gave birth to their own dream in Livingston, Kentucky. Here is a love story primarily: of husband, children, relatives, friends, customers, the land, and stray animals abandoned or lost. It is a tale of admiration for the American Indian and Kentucky history, of a wild entrepreneurial spirit that would not let them go, and all of the hard work it took to get there. In a family that does not take the word “NO” for an answer, the dream was remade and refashioned over the decades into another thriving business. I marveled at their elegant garden store and all of the trimmings set in a pristine piece of land adjacent to the Rockcastle River and Daniel Boone National Forest in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.

Before I was introduced to Lucille Carloftis, I heard the sound of her rhythmic, cooing voice. She was advising a customer on how to make good fried chicken, soaking it first in buttermilk. Lucille told the woman how much she loved her, and her family, and how they must get together soon while her purchases were put into bags. It was all sincere, all from the heart, so refreshingly done.

When we finally sat down together, Lucille began to unravel the years, as affectionately as if she was undoing her daughter’s hair ribbons. Her handsome son, Jon, buzzed about like a bee, interjecting into our conversation. “Jon has a certain artistry with his hands,” she began. “Momma, it’s easy to make this place look beautiful with silk flowers,” he teased her. Live butterflies have just arrived in paper envelopes. They are released into a screened Wardian case with live flowers inside. A local woman comes to sell her homemade soap and lip balms; sophisticated dishes, books, drawings have come from far away places. The patio houses plants, unusual containers, garden statuary, fountains. Exquisite espaliered fruit trees await new homes.

Lucille began once again. She was adorned in silver jewelry, set with turquoise stones that complemented her sun tanned skin. Wearing a rosy brick colored sweater, she looked completely at home in her body, in her beloved Kentucky. She was raised in nearby Manchester and spoke fondly of Little Goose Creek. She had married Carlo from nearby Pineville, Kentucky. “Jon is just like him,” she said beaming over at her youngest of six children.

Decades ahead of their time, they wanted to build a destination for travelers that would honor American Indian history and culture. Over the years, Indians from reservations in North Carolina, New Mexico, Arizona and New York gathered on this pristine land just outside of Livingston, Kentucky on the Rockcastle River. Calling the place Ft. Sequoyah in honor of the greatest Cherokee chiefs, they worked together to create a general store stocked with Native American handcrafts, a sweat house, the Council House, a museum and helped educate and entertain those who passed by on Route 25. Indian friends with names such as Lightfoot and Flaming Arrow, demonstrated how to make baskets, jewelry, the art of a blowgun.

In an area that was no stranger to poverty, the Carloftis family thrived and helped many others thrive too. Their six children grew up loved by their Indian friends, re-enacting historical events, entertaining themselves while the adults were at work just a stone’s throw away from their mountain home. “I am so happy that all of my children love home. We gave them free range of the house, and of the land,” Lucille adds. She recalls the rainy days when the children would re-arrange the furniture in the house, or make up plays. They worked as hard as they played.

There was the disappointment of remaking themselves into a riverboat town from the early 19th century only to find it was difficult to draw in the public after nearby I-75 was constructed; then their store closed. Lucille and Carlo decided to become experts on the public parks and historic inns in Kentucky. Eventually Lucille penned a travel cookbook of their beloved state after visits to 36 parks. Together they promoted her book while visiting several other states. Lucille also went back to finish up her college degree, becoming an elementary school teacher. During this time, her beloved husband, Carlo, died. After the school closed, she went home again. Her children all went onto college but she missed her work as a storekeeper. “It was always exciting waking up each day wondering who was going to come in through the door,” she told me.

But as fate would have it those days would return. Jon Carloftis, her youngest child, moved to New York City, and began designing roof top gardens. “Remember who you are and where you come from,” Lucille advised him. Jon was to become a nationally recognized garden designer with dreams of opening his parents’ store once again, only this time as a garden destination. Once again, some of the buildings were reconstructed, and reconfigured. Jon comes and goes, but Lucille remains happily at her Rockcastle River store, still engaging customers, many of whom have become life- long friends. I left inspired, reminded of the fortitude, tenacity and kindness of the many women I had met who had proudly called the Appalachian Mountains home.

I hope you will go for a visit, and experience this magical place for yourself! Jon hosts spring and fall open houses each year, and teaches classes at these events. You’ll be greeted by a huge aviary housing peacocks, a symbol of immortality and renewal. Walk the paths, enjoy the views and gardens. Lunch in nearby Berea while you are in the area. Have you tried the charming Boone Tavern Hotel and Restaurant? I promise you’ll feel a sense of renewal in a place that continues to prosper and grow, time after time.
For more information, click here:

Entry 129: Be Careful What you Swallow

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 20:15:37 -0400

A rainy day came on Saturday, followed by a gorgeous Sunday. I spent the afternoon and up until dark outside digging weeds, and transplanting perennials in the garden. Simply bliss, a steadying kind of prayer.

It was cathartic. The evening before my husband and I had gone to see a movie, and now for the third time, I have gotten very sick. Apparently 3-D movies, or those where the camera is hand held, or sitting up very close to the large screen can cause motion sickness. Nausea overtook me, and I could not stand to look at any light. Afterwards, I literally fell into the mattress, hoping it would absorb the toxic way I felt through and through.

It seems the system of balance in the inner ear signals that I am seated, but my eyes are tricked into thinking that my body is moving. Even though we sat to the back of the theater, the huge screen, the enormous sound, the images made me realize I am far removed from the culture in which I live. Even the previews for this coming summer’s shows were so violent, I had to turn my head away. And we paid admission for this?

We briefly saw a few minutes of the 3-D film, Lorax, while waiting for our film to begin. “Dr. Seuss”, I thought to myself, “this should be tame.” A story about a character who cuts down trees and misuses the natural world and learns his lesson sounds great, but again, it was so exaggerated, extremely intense and overwhelming to my senses, and it was meant for children!

Doesn’t it stink
Dr. Seuss would think
if his story made us feel
that we’d had too much to drink!

I have wondered when I hear this amount of noise coming from vibrating cars, or now in movie theaters where the message must be screamed at us, what in the world is going on? No wonder our culture is so afraid of being quiet and still. It assumes that we are dead of the senses; that we have an insatiable appetite for yet more and more high-tech garbage.

I sat for hours in the quiet and still of my garden yesterday. Weeding can be a form of meditation that is extraordinarily centering. Focusing on one thing alone; the repetitive, soothing quality of making a space tidy, giving plants enough room to grow; listening to wind, birds calling is a perfect antidote to motion sickness.

We heard at church, yesterday, that to learn to meditate we could download a free app on an apple computer.

I say, Go to the garden. Create distance from the culture in which we live. Dig in the earth, and remember who you are. Listen in a place where the energy of the earth and the heavens meet. That kind of motion will make you well.

Heed the advice of Dr. Seuss: “As we partake of the world’s bill of fare; that’s darn good advice to follow; Do a lot of good spitting out of the hot air; And be careful what you swallow.”

(Pictured above: a flowering vine called clematis.)

Looking for a fun weekend drive? Visit the childhood home and gardens of garden designer, Jon Carloftis, this week and weekend. This week you can take free workshops from Jon, and learn more about his organic vegetable garden featured in Country Living magazine’s April 2012 issue. Great new gifts and garden supplies also available. Located in charming Livingston, KY on the banks of the Rockcastle River. Workshops April 19 and 20. Open House is April 21.
Click here for more information:

Entry 128: Love is Come Again

Mon, 9 Apr 2012 20:11:16 -0400

Just finished up with taxes, and the weather today is simply divine. I am sitting here at my dining room table next to the Easter flowers from yesterday’s dinner. The adjacent door is open to the air and sunshine. I am watching the kitties play outside on the deck, while the shadows dance across it, sunshine through leaves. The woods in the distance are nearly vibrating with the color of chartreuse, baby leaves on branches swaying in a substantial breeze. Feel simply overcome with gratitude!

Still floating from our Easter celebration yesterday. There was Easter service, the familiar music, the scent of Easter lilies in the air. I was wearing my mother’s gold locket, the one that had belonged to her mother, pressing it between my fingers. “We pray for all of those who have died, especially...” the intercessor began. The connection I felt through the generations was so tangible and real. “We praise you for your saints who have entered in joy; May we also come to share in your heavenly kingdom.”

There was a little girl with a straw hat, daisies around it, that nearly fell over her eyes. She looked like a little bunny rabbit twitching its pink nose. Eager for the Easter egg hunt that followed in the church gardens, her older sister proudly joined in with the adults in a loud voice, having memorized the Lord’s prayer. We all began to sing the French hymn, “When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain, thy touch can call us back to life again, fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been; Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.”

Brunch out afterwards, and then an early dinner. Worked hard to prepare Saturday and Sunday, on my feet for hours, piddling around cooking and arranging flowers, and trying to make Martha Stewart-esque daffodil paper cups for Easter goodies from dyed coffee filters. (Directions much easier sounding than actually making them!) Daughter, Kristen arrived with her boyfriend, and the two made hard boiled eggs dyed in onion skins. They collected tiny green leaves from the garden, pressing them on the eggs, wrapping them in women’s hose and securing it all together. When unwrapped, they are a golden brown color, the green leaf leaving a pale celery colored imprint on the egg.

I’d arranged a circle of flowers for the table in a brass candle holder that belonged to my godmother. Among the flowers were lime hydrangea, white snap dragons, apricot gerbera daisies, and lavender mums and heather around a white pillar candle. The original bouquet from Trader Joe’s also included white orchids on plastic stems with water picks. (The short stem of the flower was inserted into a tiny tube of water, then attached to the fake stem.) These sorts of orchids were the same kind my Dad gave to Mom and me every Easter when we were a young family, to wear on our Sunday best dresses or coats. So this Easter was a way to bring his memory to the table too.

We dined on crab cakes, corn pudding, blanched asparagus, white, pink and purple radishes on my mother’s best china. Walked in the setting sun, my husband talking with his children who live in California and New York City. I hooked arms with Kristen, while her patient boyfriend allowed me to be completely “Mommy” for a little while. We returned home to key lime pie, more stories, plenty of laughter.

I went to bed thinking of another Episcopalian song we sang with a million verses at the end of Easter service, “Hail thee, festival day! Blest day that is hallowed forever.” I’m still overflowing with a grateful heart, caught up in the afterglow, feeling the holiness of the Easter experience in all living things around me.

Not every Easter has been joyful and lovely; some riddled with grief and much sorrow. Sometimes it seemed as if it was always going to be Good Friday, never Easter. Recently, one of my friends lost her daughter to cancer; another friend is undergoing chemotherapy; and several friends have been widowed.

This Easter gave me new perspective, as I unwittingly invited my ancestors to our celebration. Death eventually leads to life. There is a divine calendar that does not always line up with our seasonal one. We must give God time for spring to arise once again.

“Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
wheat that in the dark earth many days has lain,
love lives again, that with the dead has been,
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.”

Tell me about your Easter celebrations... what did you enjoy most?

Entry 127: The Reveille of Spring

Mon, 2 Apr 2012 20:45:50 -0400

In the early part of the garden season, the changes we see are so dramatic that I hate to miss a day. The garden is always a teacher; all you have to do is pay attention. This past week’s lesson revolved around a patch of ground covers I had planted a few years ago: periwinkle and ajuga.

The periwinkle happily produced hundreds of daisy like blue blossoms, beautifully complementing nearby daffodils. Then the ajuga (pictured above) finally bloomed. These purplish blue blossoms are more erect, thus the name bugleweed, as some say they are shaped like bugles. At least, they “sound” the arrival of mid-spring like soldiers blowing their horns in a morning reveille. I planted the ajuga hoping it would completely fill in an area in front of a row of boxwood. It simply did not succeed there. In fact, this year, it turned the corner, going around the boxwood to the west facing sun, telling me it required more light. (Ajuga is supposed to tolerate all sorts of light and soil conditions, as long as it is well drained.) The periwinkle not only thrived in the sun, but looped around the same boxwood, happily to exist also in the shady area where I’d originally planted the ajuga. Go figure...

So I marveled over the intelligence of plants, the ability to move where they know they can thrive. Plants moving toward the light, always beg the question, “Am I living in a place where there is adequate spiritual light, or do I need to move, to adjust so that I can more easily grow and bloom elsewhere?”

As one who tends to hang on for too long, resisting change, I chuckled at myself and what the garden was demonstrating to me. Furthermore, it put me in mind of a teacher who worked at a local high school where my younger daughter was attending. When the students had eaten their lunches, they preferred to hang out with their friends, avoiding going back to class, and clogging up the cafeteria for the next group of students coming through. My daughter, Kristen could imitate this woman, who was in charge of reminding the students to be on their way. In fact, this teacher’s words were used regularly in our family since that first encounter many years ago. She would say, “You betta moooo vah..” with a slow, southern kind of deliberate song- like quality. In fact, each syllable sounded like a different musical note. We all learned to imitate that voice, and would tease one another with it when one of us was sluggish, unable to make a decision.

So on a very challenging Monday that kept me indoors, away from the garden, I am staring longingly outdoors in the pale blush of the evening sky, darkened by silhouettes of trees and housetops. “You betta moooo vah..” is still reverberating through my mind. I do have all kinds of unfinished paperwork that I have been avoiding. When it is done, a huge weight will be off my mind and I’ll be free to move, to stretch, to look around my own corner. Who knows what I’ll find there?

If you are in the midst of garden chores involving perennials, there are some special tips for you. Click here for more information, and let me know what you have learned from your garden. I love your comments!

Entry 126: Tis Spring, but Not in the Old Way

Mon, 26 Mar 2012 13:29:25 -0400

My younger daughter Kristen, and her boyfriend, graced us with their presence this past Saturday evening. We went to a driving range where patrons hit golf balls into a lake, complete with an island. My mother and father adored the game of golf, so much that it was the central focus of our family. They often took me along with them to practice at the golf range. The discussion at evening meals usually went like this: “Did you make it over the creek on number one? What about the second hole? The lie going up that hill can be tough.” Then each hole was discussed, each shot examined, all eighteen. And what was causing the ball to slice, or to hook, and how could it be corrected? Golf professionals were consulted; lessons given; tournaments won and lost.

Being an artist of the soul, wondering if I was delivered into the wrong family, I longed to spend our summers on a lake sailing (cottage life), or visiting national parks. But most of our days were spent at the golf club where we belonged. I was dropped off at the swimming pool whenever the weather permitted, and, at ten years old, could play golf once a week, for a few hours on junior day.

I just wasn’t wired for competition, for sports, for analyzing each piece of the golf swing. I tried to fit in, but it just wasn’t me. I loved walking barefoot with my parents after dinner while they played. I adored the cool fresh cut grass under my feet, the colors of the setting sun, the peace and quiet out on the fairway, my parent’s enjoyment of one another sharing the game they loved so much. But I carried some resentment too. I flunked the golf course I took in college, on purpose, projecting my anger onto the golf coach. She was not understanding. I didn’t show up for classes. It literally hurt when I hit the ball.

So when Kristen was old enough to swing a club, my mother took her along to the golf range. Kristen could eventually emulate her grandmother’s beautiful swing, and really connect with the ball.

Since my parent’s passings, my husband too loves the game. Wouldn’t you know it? So now, I have softened a little bit. When Kristen began to knock those balls straight as an arrow a few nights ago, with such grace and power, all I could think of was appreciation for my parents. A grateful heart that I understand the rules of golf, that it is a sport for gentlemen and women, that there is a huge piece of finesse that my mother passed on to her granddaughter, and that the love of the outdoors began for me on a golf course.

Afterwards, we went out for burgers alongside the nearby Little Miami River. We laughed a lot eating outdoors on the porch, and there were moments when I felt my parent’s presence so strongly, I could have wept.

So as typical spring temperatures have returned to the Ohio Valley since writing to you last week, I took the love of walking that first began on a golf course with me this morning. The cool, sunny weather wooed me outdoors to Spring Grove Cemetery and Arboretum. Now that Spring has slowed down a bit, we can relish the blooms of dogwood, redbud, and crabapples. The tops of my navy boat shoes were sprinkled with golden pollen, as I meandered here and there taking photos. I was caught up in the gorgeous blooming trees; the sound of geese calling; proud robins, their red breasts full and swollen with a love of Spring.

When I couldn’t sleep last evening, I picked up one of the books Kristen had borrowed from the library. It was a collection of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay. My mother secretly loved to write poetry, and Kristen enjoys reading it. Tucked away into the verses of a poem was something I had not seen before. It seemed to capture the way time is irrelevant, when it comes to love, and how the weather this Spring has sort of radically transported us to a different age.

The comfort I take from the last several days is that Love never need grow old and leave us, that it is rooted firmly in our hearts, and yet within that timeless Love, we must embrace change.

“Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so tis spring;---
But not in the old way!

I recall a place
Where a plum tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so ‘tis spring---
But not in the old way!”

Three Songs of Shattering
Edna St.Vincent Millay

Entry 125: Change is in the Air

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 20:38:16 -0400

The year without a normal winter has also strangely become the year without a typical spring. Yesterday, March 18, the high temperature was 80 degrees! It felt too hot to take an afternoon stroll. At a local United Dairy Farmers we waited in line for ice cream. Two young female employees flirted with the male customers in front of us. “This ain’t spring”, one of them exclaimed, “this is what I call summer!”

The weather is on everyone’s mind, that’s for sure. It’s as if someone turned the “fast forward” on a film. What normally enfolds over weeks of cool, damp days has exploded into the tropics, way ahead of schedule. The spring of 2012 is like a teenage love affair: there is simply no stopping the desire for all that is sensual at rocket like speed. The dizzying effects of longing, the first kiss, the touch, the connection are pulling us all a bit off center.

It’s been hot and uncomfortable at times. The flower blooms are fading quickly, so short lived, so vulnerable to the heat. The Daffodil Show at the Cincinnati Zoo had to be rescheduled weeks ahead of their normal April date. Insects had been waking up with nothing to pollinate, and then in record time so many plants and trees bloomed so very early, that if cold weather comes, fruit crops could be in jeopardy.

Some of us enjoy this early spring; some are upset sensing the natural cycle of things is really off kilter. “What does it mean? I asked the young woman at a local shop who knows just how I like my cold mocha coffee drinks.

“Perhaps the Earth is picking up its pace because we are moving so quickly. Or maybe it has to do with the Mayan Calendar-- you know”, she continued, “I cannot wait until this new age begins!”

There was not a hint of fear in her voice. “Let change come!” she seemed to sing in the hot, stuffy coffee shop. I loved her courageous attitude.

Yes, there were such moments of ecstasy this past week: walking in the dark listening to the joyful songs of hundreds of birds; thrilling at Bradford pears lining ordinary roads transforming dingy cityscapes into magical places; sauntering down a lane of blooming weeping cherries, their branches swaying like long lacy skirts.

As the pink Magnolia blossoms are now nearly melting on the deck, after only being in bloom a few days, this spring provides opportunities to appreciate what the moment brings, and only for that moment.

Perhaps if Nature is our teacher, and God speaks to us through Nature we have an opportunity to embrace change, live in this moment, and see differently. Yesterday we heard our new gay priest give a beautiful sermon. His coming has been difficult for some. He asked all of us to grow and learn from one another during this unsettling time of change, as we get acquainted. Recently a friend’s husband died unexpectedly as they were walking into a store to purchase ice cream. The beauty of this spring rushed to her aid, helping her to spend hours tending her inner and outer garden.

If the daffodils and blooming trees can openly respond to change, perhaps we can find the courage to continue to love, accept one another and treasure the moments we have to live here on our Earth home.