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Down of a Thistle

Down of a Thistle

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Several days during the trip last month the air was filled with flying fluff. It took a while to determine the source, to realize that the fluff was the down of a thistle, the national flower of Caledonia.

Here’s a perfect example of vacation thinking. Were I at home, I would find the thistle a weed and the fluff frustrating evidence of its spread. But in Scotland, I found it enchanting, winged messengers of hope and beauty.

Watching the gossamer stuff float through a heathered Highland landscape was a magical experience. It brought the Clement Clarke Moore lines to mind:

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle/And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle …”

And that’s just what we did — fly away, that is.  I miss that magical vacation thinking. 

(I saw a lot more heather than thistles.)

From a Distance

From a Distance

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I’ve spent a few evenings this week rocking in the hammock as day dwindles to darkness. It’s a show worth watching. 

At first, my focal point has been the sky, the lightning bugs (fewer than last year but still blinking), and the garden, in peak bloom with coneflowers, day lilies, roses and zinnias. 

Eventually, though, I can’t help but notice the house, which appears almost fetching in the half-light. I can’t spot its deficiencies as I do in the no-nonsense noontime glare. I forget about the azalea that needs pruning, the deck that needs mending, the door that needs replacing. 

All I see is my home. How beautiful it looks … from a distance. 

A Pile of Petals

A Pile of Petals

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The climbing rose has come into its own, has come into and gone past it, if you want to know the truth. But it hung in there long enough for me to see it, even after I had the audacity to spend 10 days away during its peak blooming period. 

I attribute the rose’s survivability to scant rain and wind — and maybe, even to profusion: with so many buds to bloom, the process takes time.

Now comes the season of deconstruction, of light pink petals falling gently to the deck, the railing, the glass-topped table, even into the dregs of my morning tea. 

I keep a pile of petals beside me as I work. From time to time, I run my fingers through them and feel their velvety softness.

(The climbing rose seen from above and the pile of petals I kept beside me as I work.)


Potential

Potential

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It’s a day for flowers, for corsages and nosegays. And at my house, it’s a day to admire the climbing rose, poised to begin its spring show. 

The buds are primed, some have popped, others are ready to.

It’s also, then, a day to celebrate potential. For Mom, who always believed in our potential. And for my daughters, whose potential I was privileged to see, treasure and help shape, for all that lies ahead for them. 

Maybe May

Maybe May

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It’s May Day, the first day of a glorious month, not a holiday in this country but in many others. I used to tell my daughters, if you’re looking for a lovely time of year to be married, the beginning of May is that time. They were married in April, September and December.  So much for motherly advice. 

But what’s interesting about time and weather patterns is that I wouldn’t say this today. A decade or so ago, early May was a reliably beautiful time of year, prime azalea season, iris yet to pop, plenty of color amidst the green. These days it’s unsettled. We might have such a May 1, but more than likely we won’t. This year’s unseasonably warm winter means it’s looking decidedly summery, though it’s quite chilly, an odd combination, to say the least.

We talk a lot about climate change with its serious implications for life on this planet. But shifts in longtime patterns of growth and maturity, planting and harvesting, affect us more subtly too. They prey on our spirits and mess with our minds. 

(An azalea in its prime … on April 14, 2023.)

Words and Flowers

Words and Flowers

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Today, inspiration in my inbox. Sunday’s “Marginalian,” which I didn’t have time to read yesterday, reminds me (in the voice of diarist, novelist and poet May Sarton) to choose joy over will. 

Though the context in which she makes this point is through her love of gardening, a love I only partially share (I appreciate the garden a lot more than the gardening) Sarton’s point is well-taken. 

“Gardening is like poetry in that it is gratuitous, and also that it
cannot be done on will alone,” Sarton wrote. “What will can do, and the only thing it
can do, is make time in which to do it.”

This is the point I will take with me through the day, to let myself off the hook if the words don’t flow as I wish they would … that I can make the time, and that is essential, but the words come when they want to come. Just like the flowers.

Protecting the Forest

Protecting the Forest

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I’d resisted for days, but today I gave in. I reached down and pulled up a few garlic mustard plants, an edible but invasive species I’ve learned of recently, mostly from seeing pulled and trampled stems on the trail. 

It’s tall with a few delicate white flowers. At first, I admired it. But then I learned how it can dominate the ground cover in a forest, driving out the natives.

Walks are when I think and listen to music, when ideas percolate. I don’t want to wear garden gloves and trudge through the woods with a bucket and spade. But these plants pull up so easily that I hardly broke my stride getting rid of them.  If everyone pulled up a few stalks, there would be no more garlic mustard in our woods.

In the end, it’s elemental: When we notice, we care. And when we care, we protect. 

(Photo: Wikimedia)

Kwanzan Up Close

Kwanzan Up Close

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The Kwanzan cherry had barely begun to leaf this time last week. But the warm temperatures of early April have sent it into overdrive. 

I’m spending some time this morning just looking at the tree, observing how the big-fisted flowers bend its branches to earth. 

The Kwanzan is not as ethereal as the Yoshino cherry, which typically blooms a few weeks earlier. It’s an earthier, later blossom.  It’s best photographed up close, I think, against a bright blue sky.

Stop Time?

Stop Time?

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Speaking of buttercups … spring unspooled slowly through the month of March. Daffodils that bloomed in late February were still with us this time last week. 

But in the last few days the season hit fast forward. Our dogwood and Kwanzan cherry were barely leafing out on Monday; now they’re in full flower. Temperatures above 85 degrees will do that to a plant.

I’m hoping that today’s burst of cool air has stopped time enough to preserve “nature’s first green,” which is gold. It’s been gold for weeks now. I hope, against all evidence to the contrary, that it will stay. 

(A hyacinth blooms in February.)