morning meditations

Early morning and I heard rain was coming. The peonies are in full bloom and already weighed down. They’re going to get damaged by the rain so I’d better cut some and bring them in the house. Off I go, clippers in hands when I see a ladybug sitting on one of the young, unopened peony blooms.

Change of plans. Running to get camera. What a treat!

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I begin to notice the magical activity taking place in the garden early in the morning. The bees are working hard already. Nepeta and the roses seem to be their destination of choice.

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this day

I’m grateful for sitting practice. Breathing the sound of the bell, in and out, following it deeper and deeper. I found myself expanding, becoming one with the sound. For a moment, there were no boundaries, only the sound . . . expanding, vibrating through space, and I with it.

I’m grateful for the morning fog that gave way to sunny skies, for my daughter’s loving words, the smile on my client’s face, hot tea and toast, birthday celebrations, good friends, nourishing food and the beauty that surrounds me.

I’m grateful for the rose bush in my yard that’s gone on a blooming spree. “I’m still here, look at me, touch my blooms, enjoy the fragrance, and remember . . . I’ll be back.”

The viburnum is filled with red pods, eagerly providing for the birds before the darkness and cold of winter. The wisdom of nature; nothing ever goes to waste and for everything there’s a purpose.

As I walked toward my car, I looked down and saw that the garden had been busy trying new things. A sculpture of moss, twig, a fallen bloom, and wayward leaves. Left undisturbed for days, they made this stone their canvas. Nature being playful and creative! I’m reminded of how we too, when given space, we can create all kinds of beauty out of the raw materials of our lives.

Earlier in the morning, these words found me . . .

Nothing is worth more than this day.

Goethe

In gratitude!

 

of gardens and wood fairies

I grew up watching my grandfather tending his garden. There were roses, grape vines, and fruit trees. In the summer, he would wake me up early in the morning so we could pick figs from the trees in our back yard for breakfast. Around noon, after the day’s chores were done, the children would lie down, under the shade of one of the fig trees to rest, while our mothers would sit nearby and gossip or knit – seeking respite from the heat. Often, they would tell us stories about wood fairies and how they could steal the mind of the unfortunate mortals sleeping under their favorite trees.

My childhood wasn’t easy but there was magic in the air and the magic sustained me; the deep connection to the land and the myths and vibrations of old.

The days I spent trailing my grandfather as he tended his garden, have fueled my love for all things blooming. Lately, these memories have been circling my mind; strumming at my heart chords. It’s been a long time and there’s an ocean between the child lying under the grand fig tree, dreaming of wood fairies, and the woman I am today.

My grandfather died when I was fifteen. That’s how old my daughters are now. The fig trees, the grape arbor and the rose garden are long gone. These days, I tend my own garden and although New England isn’t very friendly to fig trees, the magic still holds. The garden takes hold of me; I dream of it in the winter and come spring, it’s the first place I go to, tea cup in hand. It keeps me connected and grounded; dirty fingernails and all.

I began fancying myself as a gardener in my late twenties. My initial efforts failed miserably. Secretly, I was happy that grandfather wasn’t around witnessing his apprentice making a mess of things. I kept trying and failing and each time I learned something more.

I learned about soil and light and native plants. I learned about timing and letting go. I learned to collaborate. A garden exists in spirit form and manifests through the gardener, in due time. It’s always a work in process and transformation, based on nature’s cycles and rhythm. With each passing season, I’m watching my sense of perfectionism softening its grip. I’ve learned to be happy with my lot. Other people’s gardens can serve as inspiration but in the end, my garden and I have our own things going and it suits us fine.

Our moods are interconnected. Sometimes I like things simpler and other times I go over the top. As I change and transform, so does my garden. There are certain things that don’t change; my love for fragrant blooms, herbs, and roses. I learned what plants invite hummingbirds in my yard. I recognize the sounds they make and I know when to be still and watch for them.

The other day, I started doing some fall clean up. I’m still hesitating cutting back the shasta daisies and the peonies. Their dry stalks are reminders of the glory of spring and high summer. I’m not ready to let go . . . just yet. The basil is gone but I brought some parsley and mint inside for the winter.

The garden is preparing for darker, colder days ahead, and so am I. Each season comes bearing gifts but I have spring in my mind. Soon, I’ll start dreaming again.