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Category: flowers

Hidden Blossoms

Hidden Blossoms

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While it’s easy to be captivated by the grand views off the ridges of Shenandoah National Park, one of the prettiest sights I saw yesterday were these pink lady’s slippers. They were tucked behind a stand of (as yet un-bloomed) mountain laurel, as if they were hiding, biding their time. 

Spring is still arriving at 3,000 feet, and many of the trees were still flashing gold at their crowns. Wildflowers we welcomed weeks ago, like buttercups, are in their prime on the slopes.

But no matter the season, the views captivate year-round, whether framed in flaming leaves or spring wildflowers.

The Roses, Again

The Roses, Again

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The climbing roses have burst into bloom. Pale buds are blossoming into creamy pink flowers, are shading the deck table, are hanging overhead even as I write these words.


Does nature produce any flower as lovely as the New Dawn climbing rose? The shiny green foliage, the shy petals, the subtle color, like the barest of blushes.

I trained the roses to shade the deck, to cover the pergola, and now they almost do. As a result, the best view is from a second-floor window — odd, but a feature of this plant, which grows up and out.

And how can you not love a plant like that? One with such high aspirations, with such beauty and patience (because the buds were ready to burst open for weeks it seemed)? One with such poise and determination?

I write about the roses this time every year. I know I’m being repetitive … but I just can’t help myself.

Rough Winds

Rough Winds

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Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May 
And summer’s lease hath far too short a date.

So go the third and fourth lines of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, which begins with the lines “Shall I compare thee to a summer day?/Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

They’ve been in my mind lately as the brisk winds continue to blow and the gray clouds continue to blot out the sun. It’s been one of the coolest springs on record, and is beginning to bother me — not that there’s a thing I can do about it except try to see the positive side.

And that brings me back to Shakespeare. Because the buds, though shaken, are staying buds longer than usual. They aren’t flowering and fading as quickly as they would if our temperatures were topping 80 each day.

A cool spring may try the patience of one who loves warm weather, but it will, for a few days at least, keep time at bay.

(If the bottom photo looks blurry, it’s because the wind was indeed shaking these fully bloomed knockout roses.) 

Fresh Flowers!

Fresh Flowers!

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For Mother’s Day, a harvest of cut flowers. What is it about them? What a joy they are, what an extravagance — a snapshot in time, catching beauty on the fly.

With several bouquets, I’ve been able to scatter them about the house, so that no matter where I look, I see lilies or freesia or mums or tulips, all in pinks and purples and spots of orange.

I know they won’t last, so all the more reason to celebrate them here.

Catkins!

Catkins!

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The oak catkins are back, draping and dropping, falling from trees onto car, lawn and deck. They’re graceful and gritty, ornery and ornamental. They make my eyes water and my sinuses swell.

These male flowers release pollen to the wind, pollen that finds its way to the female oak flowers to make acorns — and eventually new oak trees. But catkins find many detours from their appointed rounds. They hitch a ride on the soles of shoes, worm their way into houses where they burrow into carpets, slide into corners, and get stuck on the shaggy coats of one old doggie I know.

Years ago, during a catkin-heavy spring, my middle daughter, Claire, decided to start a catkin-removal business. She asked our neighbors if they’d like their driveways swept free of the things, and most of them said yes. Claire did a brisk business. She worked hard for hours, pulling her little wagon up and down the street and loading the catkins there after she’d swept them up.

I’ll never forget her trudging home in the late afternoon, full of smiles. She had a few dollars in her pocket, our neighbor’s driveways were pristine — and she’d brought all the catkins home … to our yard.

Respite in the Garden

Respite in the Garden

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Weeds don’t care about viruses. They grow just as robustly during a pandemic as they do any other time. So yesterday I waded into the garden to pull out wild strawberries, dandelions and other invasive plants.

It felt good to have my hands in the earth and the sun warm on my back. It felt normal and pre-pandemic.

The mulch, when I spread it, had that same aroma it always does, and the back yard had the same discouraging bald patches it always does this time of year.  I’m hoping that our hard work now will pay off later — but, as always, I’m not counting on it.

(Violets are one weed I’ll leave alone.)

Blossoms Remembered

Blossoms Remembered

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It’s been years since I’ve missed seeing D.C.’s famous cherry blossoms. It’s one of my own personal rites of spring — walking beneath the massed pink flowers, petals falling gently on our heads, seeing the city transformed.

There are always crowds: picnickers, photographers, little kids who stray too close to the Tidal Basin. Many people dress up for the occasion, and it’s a favorite for engagement shoots. But the clamor and craziness of it is part of the experience, as are all the times I’ve gone before with my family and with my parents years ago. Those earlier visits are with me each new year when I brave the crowds to see the blossoms again.

This year there are no tourists. Roads are blocked off discouraging congregation. Those who venture down are masked and gloved. They’re maintaining social distance.  I will not be one of them.

But I can imagine what it’s like, can take a virtual walk beneath the trees.

Social Distancing

Social Distancing

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On a walk yesterday I spotted these well-spaced blossoms, which are part of an uncultivated weeping cherry, I think. There’s a tree like this at the end of our yard, too, though until the last few years it had no space to bloom.

I ponder the pale pink of these flowers, a d their delicacy and freshness. Surely they’re an antidote to what ails us.

And yet, when I look more closely, all I see is the space between blossoms.

These
        days
              even
                    nature
                            seems
                                     to
                                        practice
                                                    social
                                                              distancing.

Being Outside

Being Outside

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Inside, we are quarantined, faithfully keeping our social distance. But outside … we are free.

I felt it today when I went for a walk in a gradually clearing day. The cold rain of early morning had misted away and what was left in its wake was a landscape filled with birdsong and puddles and forsythia popping.

All of a sudden, the day didn’t feel as gloomy. The fears of pandemic gave way to the beauty of spring.


(I’m rushing it a little with this photo; these iris won’t bloom until May.)

Pruning the Rose

Pruning the Rose

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Pruning the rose is one of the more zen-like gardening tasks. While it may seem daunting at first, once you’ve found the rhythm — deadheading the spent blooms, tracing each shoot to its origin, discovering the essential order of the plant — it becomes as engrossing as any occupation I know of.

It’s not mindless but mindful. It requires that we study each stem, follow it through a tangle of thorns and the green gardening wire I use to lash errant branches to their railings. It’s almost like entering the plant, learning its secrets, understanding it enough to diminish it, knowing that in making it less we ultimately make it more.

Gardening mirrors life in many ways — but pruning the rose mirrors it more than mowing, say, or weeding. Because in life must we often need to shed the extraneous, to find the essential and amplify it, to train first ourselves and then our children, to guide and shepherd. And that means meeting things first on their own terms.  In gardening, as in life, it’s important to pay attention.