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Second Bloom

Second Bloom

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The climbing roses have thrived this year, and the topmost ones are flowering again. I just snapped this shot today, attempting to capture the creamy springlike hue of the rose along with the first gold tinge of the witch hazel. 

Not for nothing are these called climbing roses. I leaned out a second-floor window to take this photograph. While I enjoy the view from on high, I miss the full effect when I’m more earth-bound. 

Every year at blooming time — the main flowering season in late May and the lesser one in September — I ponder the lesson in this. A reminder to train my eyes upward? To have perspective?

Second bloom means second chances, a bonus, what ought not to arrive but somehow, miraculously, does. In a time of year more associated with fading and dying, these flowers are just coming to life. Maybe that’s why there are second blooms — for the romantics among us who like to pretend there are messages in nature. 

Saying Goodbye

Saying Goodbye

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A few minutes ago, while working on the deck, I heard the distinctive low buzz of a hummingbird. It was not, as usual, sipping the nectar from the feeder or plumbing the petals of the New Guinea impatiens. It was, as far as I can tell, taking a closer look at me.

These tiny birds are entering their final days in this part of the world. Every glimpse I have may be my last of the season. 

So when this tiny creature entered my air space, did a few star turns and hovered in front of me, I held my breath. It was a moment of transcendence, a moment of quiet communion. The bird, I’m convinced, was saying goodbye.

(An update on this post: I saw a hummingbird a full week later, so not quite goodbye then after all!)

Forty-Nine!

Forty-Nine!

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It was 49 degrees when I woke up this morning. While we have moved up into the low 60s, I’m still wrapped in a blanket wearing a wool sweater (the first time to don my toasty new Inishmore-knit cardigan) and sipping hot chai.

My plan, you see, is to work outside as long as I can this season. But based on my wimpy response today I barely give myself to the end of the month. 

Given where I live, however, I realize I could be sweating in record-breaking humidity in just a few days. So for now, I plan to sit tight, wrap up when necessary, shed layers when not, and write al fresco until the cold chases me indoors.

Better Late …

Better Late …

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Most of the crepe myrtles in the neighborhood have long since bloomed and faded. The rose and magenta shades have faded to a translucent brown, the petals have dried and fallen.

But for some reason, the lavender-hued crepe myrtle in the front yard always begins and ends its blooming late in the season. Which means that instead of late-summer color, there’s early-fall color. 

I’ve meant to snap a photo against blue skies and puffy clouds. But those days came and went. Instead, yesterday’s rains have weighted the stems and leaves enough that they’re hanging their heads for a closeup.  I snapped a shot of their muted blossoms in between the showers. 

Part of the Furniture

Part of the Furniture

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Yesterday, a hummingbird dive-bombed me, flew around my head several times, then hovered right in front of me, as if to announce herself. Of course, I couldn’t get my camera ready in time to take a closeup shot (though I did snap the one above of her or one of her compatriots sipping nectar last week).

Hummingbirds aren’t the only animals who are becoming nonchalant about my presence. A six-point buck was grazing in my backyard this morning shortly after dawn. Foxes trot through the tall grass that needs mowing as if they owned the place. A few weeks ago, there was a tree frog in the wind chimes; his croaks were highly amplified.

But the birds are on a completely different scale. Because I’ve been working outside on the glass-topped table all summer they have begun to treat me like part of the furniture. They flit, they flutter, they feed. They completely ignore me. 

Because they do, I can observe their tiniest rustlings, the way a slender stem bends with their weight, or the chirps and peeps of goldfinches, cardinals and chickadees as they congregate around the feeder and gone-to-seed coneflowers. 

Amidst all this bounty, my task is simple: I sit and take it in. I am, after all, just part of the furniture.

Tiny Harvest

Tiny Harvest

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The single cherry tomato plant I bought in June has grown taller than I ever thought it would. It’s been tied and jerry-rigged and is still producing flowers and fruit.

Last week, I harvested this bunch of beauties — just enough to drizzle with olive oil and mix with fresh-ground pepper, basil snipped from the pot right next to the tomatoes on the deck, and fresh mozzarella. 

The salad was yummy … and what made this tiny harvest taste even better was knowing we’d grown the tomatoes right on the deck. 

Slow Sunday

Slow Sunday

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It’s already past noon, but I’m finishing up laundry and online church in hopes that the rest of the day will be slow enough to read and write and generally while away some time. My partner in crime: this hammock, which I plan to enjoy again as soon as I push “publish.”

The evolution of Sunday from a day set aside for special treatment to just another weekend day is one I lament. Not that it would be fun to have stores closed and activities shut down. But it would be nice to have a day that is marked by doing less and reflecting more. A day devoted to gratitude and taking stock. 

Some would say we can get by with a few of these a year; we don’t need one a week. But I think we might be happier and healthier if we could make slow Sundays the rule instead of the exception.

Spent

Spent

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The climbing rose is losing its leaves and there are fewer rose hips than last year. Is the plant ailing or just tired after a long summer of heat and humidity? Probably a little of both. But it’s not just the rose; it’s all the plants, the ones that are here, fraying around the edges, and the ones I had hoped to plant … but did not.

It’s that time of year when you realize that what you have in the garden is what you get. The grand dreams of landscaping that were yours for the taking in the heady days of early spring seem silly now. There will be no clematis paniculata planted by the deck stairs, no zinnias by the mailbox. The weeds that once threatened are now welcomed because at least they are green. 

But this is not to sound an entirely disappointed note. There are some gardening success stories this year. The transplanted ornamental grasses are thriving farther down in the yard, beside the fence. And the knockout rose I bought on impulse has made a promising start (even though it will have to be moved, thanks to one of those doing-better-than-expected ornamental grasses). 

Still, it’s time to acknowledge that we’re moving out of the growing season, not into it. Acorns are falling fast and even a few yellow leaves have imprinted themselves on the black springy mat of the trampoline. In a month we will be entering meteorological autumn. Summer … is spent. 

The Naturalist

The Naturalist

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Lately it has been cool and dry enough to throw open the windows and door. Yesterday I worked on the deck in the late afternoon light, feeling that perfect balance of temperature and air weight that makes humans feel content, at home in the world.

Other creatures were out there with me. The crickets chirped, their music blending with the tinnitus that has become so much a part of my background noise that I seldom notice it anymore. The hummingbirds sparred and fed. Copper wandered in and out the open door. A squirrel landed on a branch of our neighbor’s tree, bending it with his tiny weight.

I was thinking the other day that working at home may turn me into a naturalist. Working outside, taking breaks in the woods instead of at the water cooler — for these reasons and many others I’ve gotten on myself for not knowing more about the trees I see, even the weeds I pull. 

For now, there’s little time for this … but when the impulse is there, the action may follow. Or at least that’s what I hope.

The Butterfly Effect

The Butterfly Effect

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It’s a beautiful day here, with a light breeze, low humidity and hummingbirds topping up frequently at the nectar bar. The perfect day to take breaks in the yard, picking up sticks and pulling stilt grass.

A few minutes ago the chainsaws revving in the distance finally claimed their victim as Folkstone lost another of its giant oaks. By now I recognize the harbingers, those first crashing-through-brush sounds that are followed by the thud of a massive trunk hitting the earth. I almost felt the ground shake. And I wasn’t the only one. A distant dog began to bark, too. 

It made me think of the butterfly effect, a part of chaos theory which posits that small changes can have large effects, with the oft-used metaphorical example of a tornado’s path being affected by the flapping of a butterfly’s wings far away. 

Although that example is a simplification, small changes do have big consequences. We see it all the time in our lives, in everything from the first tiny crack in a windshield to the first small rupture in a relationship. I think that’s why the concept of the butterfly effect caught the popular imagination. And why I thought of today, as the tree fell and the dog barked and I … wrote my post about it.