EVIDENCE

The more I study this picture from the late spring archives, the more I am convinced that I.am.not.losing.it.

I planted spinach, a few kinds of lettuce, parsely, sage, and basil.

Hidden behind the silk , deep in the eyes of innocence, the soil lingers.

Reminding me that paws dig, friends lend a helping hand or heave, dogs drive us crazy

I might give him a talking to, attempt to explain the importance of seeds staying where they've been planted. Basic gardening for actual crop advice.

I'm guessing he'll be hard to catch or hold in eye to eye contact, scurrying and playing hide and go seek, and spraying dirt and mulch , blossoms, and vegetation skyward.

I forgive you Diesel, I'm just heading out to the Farmer's Market for a bit...

MELLOW MONDAY ON FRIDAY

A soft place to land this morning, waking up in the grating of living. Bell chimes of pots and pans in the gush of washing away the grime of our marching.

It takes a fairy tale land of sweet tarts and rain heavy dreaming, to ease me into awakening.

Whispering glides of rake, like flowing silk skirt edges, catch petals and pods and pollen as I crouch down to greet the bees. Gossamer divine flights flutter in my drifting eye edges, and I feel carried too,

transported to celestial cities of white halcyon spirits .

Where a morning is a lifetime of beginnings. Eyelash brushes of petals and heart.

THE UNEXPECTED

An evening walk in our neighbourhood , window shopping , gallery stops and admiration.

A driveway meets France.
( Except that this is probably the Hidcote Blue variety, a Zone 5/6 English lavender.)

Patches and swatches of colour and texture and scent.
I am drawn to mini masterpiece gardens that I barely noticed in the past few years, the weeks of scorching sun, parched earth, watering bans.

Suddenly the green crescents and streets canvas rolled out under unpredictable Southern Ontario skies, are painted with bold purples, yellows, pinks, and whites , salmons, orange.

A vibrancy that startles.

I am resigned to my little gardening space, usually confirmed at this point in the season when wilted and scorched attempts hardly awaken plant envy, instead bring sighs of relief that I have less to water, mulch, water again.
Mourn the loss of.

So suddenly here I am , yearning for more space to brush up against a hedge of this and that, and drift in perfumed holiday.
Even the roses look like they belong here, naturally knit among daisies, coneflowers, coreopsis, stella d'oro daylily standard hardy fare.

Do birds take advantage of milder , balmy stretch of days? The cardinals, finch , chickadees, and robins meet and greet each other and us in any hour of this mellow July. Socializing , rejoicing, and making merry in the cool lush promise .

Where I normally sigh in faith at droopy shrivelling leaves of our tired lilac , spent and succumbing to constant thirst, glaring sun. I now approach with respectful quiet and wonder.

This lilac was just a scrawny yet to bloom symbol of putting down roots to our young family and first home .
When my husband and I fought to keep eyes open and legs moving, piling boxes and baby living into the rented moving truck in the quiet of night meeting morning, we both knew without much discussion that we couldn't leave it behind.
We laughed at the sneaky theft of garden bones, like the new owners were suddenly robbed of spring.
But those tender shoots that bowed in wind and snow held our hope too.
Of family seasons that come and go and fill the heart with violet gladness . Deliverance from winter 's grip in defiant blossom of redemption.

The lilac has flourished in the protected corner outside the kitchen eating area window. Passed countless times on the way to, in and out of the yard, our days. We divide the bounty of sweet passage into spring , bouquets filling the bedrooms, kitchen, family room, and powder room with such overpowering fragrant life.
I wrap up wet chilly bundles of faith for teachers , for friends that drop by.
I share the trust with 2 sisters friends. Women that I've come to know in these past pitch of years as chained to my soul. Bound in the tears and joy of marriage and children and community.

One dear love receives them as reminder of what was too, as the other is delivered through the grief and quiet grace of her left behind family. Hands no longer reaching over the fence to snatch our glory, my heart, my innocence.

Our lilac gives and gives this year. As time subsides the flow of tears and bleeding pain , it gifts life.
This spring we hosted a family of robins tucked in the arms of our humble offering.

But the nest is vessel for patient trust yet again.

What masterpiece of Creation startles us all in the hectic bounty of our backyard. Persevering in the wrath of dog and people traffic.
Yet another birth, large family hope joining ours.
Survival .
Grateful praise.
Painting chirping bold living on a subdued spirit.

unwrapping my tuesday with the other moments of thanks at Chatting at the Sky

DAZED AND CONFUSED

It thrills that some love brushes against me as I stomp on the pine needles and cedar mulch path under the forest pansy. I drop the bucket of tools, the empty one for debris, the rake, cultivator, edger, broom, and head for the shed.

I'm taken back in it's smell, to cottages and cabins , canoeing at sunset, the call of the loon, chipmunks scurrying .

There I find the leaf bags I'll need, and a visual mix in the supplies of almost retirees, grandparents, gardeners.

This sweet couple is kind enough to let me forage about in their retreat in the older part of the city, tucked in among the treasured tree canopies and ones being taken down for newer homes.

I look forward to the monthly English garden getaways , eager to root among the thirsty ones , weeding, deadheading, trimming.

The soil down near the lake is sandier than the clay that frustrates most of my neighbours.

The cool shade rewards efforts for rhododendrons , hydrangeas, ferns, woodland bulbs, and the like.
This garden looks organic and easy, meandering here and there, freely mixing and swaying and blooming .

I've discovered, as with most things in life, that it takes many behind the scene hours of work, with pruners, trimmer, clippers, and a trusty LTool to achieve a look of natural beauty.

The refined, the delicate, the muted tones and subtle shade contrasts.

Arbours and paths gently entice to tucked away seating for reflection. A pond babbles, nestled in ivy and wild violet . A gazebo beckons for refreshments , bird watching.

But behind many castle walls the fairy tales do not exist.

High tea illusions of the downstairs drudgery.

She taunts me there , that lady always waiting. With demure downcast eyes and plain dress.

For all is not peaceful in extreme gardening ventures , when you go in unprepared and stay in the game when the body cries otherwise.

I have spent the last few days in a woozy stupor of throbbing head and slow motion limbs.

I partied too hard on that day away from it all.

Too many hours bending and crawling in the snickering sun. Without a drop of liquid, water or otherwise.

Collecting bites and giving up blood .

Chirped at by the knowing chipmunk while I loaded my car, hands shaking in the hurried invoicing.

Even when things are as lush and innocent as a forest opening, one still needs to be prepared , with supplies, and common sense.

A good lesson at this point in the summer, with the schedules , the routines, the days and nights and sounds mixing like a cottage garden of tipsy July days. It's time to thin out, and cut back, and remember the basics. The wild rain drunk gardens are getting a little edgy lately, and this gardener feels like she 's recovering from jungle fever.

I rushed angrily, and frustrated, to escape the CD's blaring pulse from my own backyard, hoping to find sweet music for my soul at the home of elsewhere.

Only to need to be reminded to rest and drink and thirst for more of the love here where my heart beats best.

It really isn't all that romantic a notion to bloom where you're planted, and put in good strong roots to live by.

Plants wither quickly when you shock them in transplanting. Extra care in watering, fertilizing, support, pinching back, and soil conditions are vital factors in the transition.

So too with mothers and summers with almost grown children.

I must take care to tend to these transitions , and remember to take time to sway freely in the many colours of love and life giving roots.

SECRETS OF THE GARDEN

Recent intermittent but relentless downpours are wreaking havoc with the garden maintenance scheduling. For clients, and in our yard.

I enjoy working in a mist of refreshing rain, preferring it over oppressive heat and humidity . But slogging through sheets of it, soaked through gloves and leaves and drooping stems and hair can wilt any song in the rain.

I ventured outside after dinner to take a few pictures between dark cloud coverings , and the night, colours and blooms blinking at me through drips and shivers.

Once again the uploaded evidence that I need to wear my glasses more often surprised me on the computer screen.

Little critters living out their destiny right under my nose and lens, as though the petals and leaves were just the setting and they the characters in mysterious stories.

A slimy slug like go getter. Was he looking back at the trail of evidence behind him. Or second guessing the height of extreme chomping. Was he leery of someone lighting a fuse and sending him rocket launched on a veronica purple flight.

A winged sojourner on still curled echinacea, trying on the pink for awhile , translucent flutter of subtle trespass.

How much of this ecosystem carries on out of our sight and mind until we see damaged evidence. Sanctimoniously in denial when confronted with a diseased, foraged, mildew covered, fungus laden and aphid haven plant. Sometimes there doesn't seem to be any evidence of the enemy, a root bound instability, a pool of water cutting off everything else.

The coddled nine bark, the babied coral bell, the watched over dogwood, much loved iris, meeting a doom and death in spite of our efforts or without a warning it seems.

Growing a gardening for pleasure , landscaping to beautify your property, planting trees for shade and a good feeling, seeding and sodding and sowing some hope, is a gamble .

It can be an investment of time and money and pride and frustration with no guarantee of dividend .

There is much to Mother Nature's ways that we can't control , not with pesticides, fungicides, guards, fertilizers, Not with the best soil, hours of grooming, evenings of research.

Something can be stirring and creeping and invading and we can be powerless to halt the inevitable.

We fret and grumble and rush to prevent epidemic , huff and puff and mourn and move on.

Plant again. Start over. Dig in and get growing.

Something inside of us that we can't always see or name or assure will be there soon enough.

But it is the beauty of our nature.

Tossing seeds of faith into the breeze , wishing on weeds and fireflies and stars.

And waiting again for the miracle.

HOPPING FENCES

The stepping out into private garden maintenance, out of a short trial in retail, and magazines and wishful thinking, required a leap of faith. To meander front garden perimeters, balance on rock walls, enter into backyards through side gates and around behind .

It magnified my nervousness , threshold crossings in both surrender and anticipation.

A journey into what I longed to feel familiar, what I longed for, so unknown.

It was only through the kind reaching out of a past acquaintance, now special friend, that I got the chance to do this at all, sub-contracting with an eager smile, newly stiff gloves, and pocket guides to Ontario plants tucked at the bottom of my tool bucket.

I was drawn in to the light, onward, and on the clock, by this magnificent inviting wall of climbing hydrangea greeting me that early summer morning.

I remember steadying my breathing, labouring into that light , a few more steps to getting the I forgot how hard this used to be moment behind me.

This garden isn't particularly large, flowing around the pool and deck and patio with a good mix of both common and newer shrubs, perennials, and older trees, a simple addition of annuals for colour. Scattered about are the odd trinkets and ornaments, tasteful and cheerful.

The space invites. It is casual and comfortable, neat yet unpretentious.

I can't tell you how relieved I was, and how honoured and grateful to have such an opportunity to poke around and soak up such easy beauty.

There is good placement of contrast, such as the blue oat grass with the barberry, variety of texture, and staggered bloom time colour, unifying the backyard bordered by the newly planted cedar hedge , with the style of the home itself.

I was challenged right from that first scheduled visit, when it came time to prune the variegated Japanese willow standard, sweat beads from sun and stretching and skittish wielding of blades, praying to leave few cross branches, and enough life and form.

After edging and raking and sweeping, all I could think of was the Ikea commercial... shouting "Start the Car" to myself as I fumbled and stumbled with everything in one trip to make my getaway before I was found out. I didn't have master gardener training to offer, Latin in pockets , or years of tending anything more than a tiny patch of hope by our old play set, and the more recent experiments in don't you know your yard is shady now poolscaping.

I've gone through a few pairs of gloves since then, lost a pair of expensive pruners, gained more clients, and a permanent boot tan.

This home with it's front , side and back plantings truly brings joy.

It is a just the right sized piece of suburbia in the older mature treed part of the city. A slightly tired , time to freshen up, imperfect here and there sanctuary. The stubborn old vines keep sneaking over the window sills, the windswept climbing rose blooms in spite of itself. The cedar hedge has flourished and has made a reworking of some of the now shadow cast spots the latest project.

The family that blesses this space couldn't be any warmer or sincere or giving. I could feel it right away , back that first day , when she took the time to email mail me afterwards with gushing thanks, insisting on paying more than I had shyly undercharged.

I knew it in soggy aching bones when he approached me to share his ideas for the changes and wanted to know what I thought and introduced me to his son.

When her mother took sicker than she had been and grew weaker, she wore it on her face, in her walk , her tiny frame of grieving soul slouched a bit in the doorway. Her painless passing breaking and filling my heart, witnessing and touched by such love and grace.

It is a real home garden , sweeping around and hugging a truly beautiful family, and I still get a little tremble there at that solid iron gate, so grateful to get to wrap up in it for a while, and carry it with me forever.

I am posting this as the first of the A Stroll and a Ramble entries. In which I sort of highlight a garden I work on, or covet, or visit, and will no doubt unfold it as a story.

There is abundance of fabulous foliage , unique tastes and inspiring design in our community , and I'm certain that in shining some light on it, we could all learn and share , growing from each other. We are neighbours after all.

WORKBOOT FOOTPRINTS

                                                                                                                                                                         

I read somewhere that gardening is a kind of parenting for plants.

 Plant parenthood. 

 It involves nurturing a life from tiny seed , or graft, or cutting. A perennial, shrub, or tree needs a careful eye to maintain shape, watch for insects, prune out dead or diseased bits , cutting back when necessary.

Depending on where you live, temperatures, humidity, rainfall, soil conditions, etc., will necessitate unique grooming practices and tried and true habits that reflect the those zones or ideals of what a garden "should" look like or include.

In our area,  there is a shift to low maintenance, drought resistant, instant and constant colour bloom and growth .

 Most people don't have the time , knowledge, or inclination to garden, grow  flowers, vegetables, fruits, or otherwise. 

 When I worked at a garden centre recently, many customers preferred their purchases to be foolproof, weather notwithstanding, and to provide a decorating element to their yards and outdoor spaces along the same lines as the necessary evils of fencing, and to decorate much the same way as their patio table decisions.

  The staff was aware of this "dumbing down" of gardeners , and the move to predesigned, plunk it down and forget it marketing that seemed inevitable.

Yet I was encouraged more and more by genuine interest .

 Young couples that shared their stories about wanting to recreate the sweeping lily beds at their family cottage. Newly married first time homeowners honest about their lack of knowledge but eager and excited to embrace sustainable green spaces and avoid mass annual plantings that seemed wasteful and boring. They wanted perennials, the latest cultivars , the better developed shrubs and trees that would complement their spaces , co-ordinate with their homes, with appreciation for texture, colour , flow, and curb appeal. 

Time and again I was surprised by the  earnest cheer  of young adults helping their parents redo a garden, aiding a grandparent begin anew on a smaller property. By children keen to learn about hens and chicks, and tomato plants, urging parents to buy sunflowers, iris, lilac, watering cans, seeds, and rakes.

We prompted most of these customers to buy mulch... a true lifesaver on busy hot summer weed thriving days, and to plant far enough apart , and dig large enough holes , to augment their soil and so on.

I pointed to the plant labels and suggested they keep them in a safe place,  urged them to call or visit the store , or it's website for support and to ask questions, and to continue the journey of gardening.

I warned them with a smile and touch of an arm that they were beginning a lifestyle.

 A cycle of life and death that would have them in union with the greater cycles of birth and life and death, seasons,  changes, mistakes, disappointments, rewards, pride, accomplishment.

I was met back with joy in the eyes of these on the threshold dreamers. 

I told them that gardening meant getting dirty, sweaty, soaked through, bug bitten, sunburnt, sore, and scratched up sometimes too.

That it was about putting in wholesome commitment and getting on your knees service to grow, uphold, sustain, maximize and never leave unchecked hope and gratefulness in beauty and life.

I was met back with joy in the eyes of those on the threshold dreamers and it changed me , and has rejuvenated my  mudpie maker heart.

We should all find promise and optimism  and a trusting peace in those that follow along just there in our left off conversations. Hope for the future that they've read in the books, and listened  in our lectures and laments and fears. If we see with their blossoming eyes, we may look upon a  rose coloured flourishing future.

If you have any encouraging stories of budding gardeners, please share. I will be starting a section on kids and gardening soon,  so look for that prompt too!

SOWN WISHES

I must confess that the stark beauty of delicate petals blooming in morning sunlight catches me in wonder .
I am taken by the contrast of colours and textures .

But it is something more this playing in dirt thing.

Because even as I tend to my own gardens, or those of clients, as I try to turn the eyes of my children to the miracle of seedlings and unfurling and tendrils wrapping, it transcends .

I appreciate all the terminology and science that is gardening. Zones and soil , wind, drought, propagation.

Yet it is the growth that gets me. The dirt, the seed , sprouts, buds, life from dormancy or decay.

The cycle of life.

The inevitability of death , disease, withering, breakage, spoil.

The need for pruning, trimming, dividing, composting.

There is hope and joy and faith in shrubs and trees and perennials. Tenacious runners and suckers .

And it brings us to our knees in labour, in awe, scratching at the soil to let in air and water, scratching at tired crusty soul too.

I can slug my bucket of tools around with an eye for seasonally appropriate planting , weeding, and cutting back times.

But more importantly I can scatter seeds into a pot for a convenient kitchen herb garden , this late in June already, when this should be the picture,

not this,

Just like my little girl self , long ago on a very urban street in Montreal,when I planted dreams under a crumbling porch in a bean seed of faith, I water and wait.

Gardening shouldn't be intimidating or about achieving magazine ideals of colour balance and bloom time . It should suit your lifestyle, feed your soul, and maybe your family a little too. It should get you in touch with the earth 's bounty. Roots, and veins , and scents , greens, purples , yellows , and whites that add value to our view of the outdoors , our lives.

Be encouraged to  try , to look around you, to dig in and get a little muddy. 

And go ahead and confess to those flubs and flukes, the annuals that withered in plastic trays before you got to transplanting them, the sprouts pulled out with the weeds, the tomatoes planted so late you prayed for the longest summer ever to coax out a red prize. 

Share ... you'll feel better. 

 

Our basil will bring tomatoes to splendid perfection in no time , right?

DEEP ROOT THOUGHTS

 I struggle to get the dirt out from under my nails and from the creases in my aging fingers.

Digging in soil, creating a garden, pulling out tired, overgrown plants, edging, and amending. 

Worn work boots, knee pads, mud streaked shorts, hair askew . Hours spent reworking and revamping garden spaces. 

Weeding, cultivating , raking, planting, deadheading, dividing , pruning, trimming.

Nurturing .

It is creative, earthy, earthly, heavenly, tiring, soul feeding, honourable, and as uplifting as any stewardship of this great creation can possibly be. 

It provides a bit of solitude, community, some monetary reward, bountiful spiritual reward.

It is common ground for my husband and I , and I hope we have instilled the passion in our children.

It links us to our past, our journeys, and is a vital component in the hope for all of our futures.

Won't you join me here, share the seeds, the wishes, the blooms, the fruits.