Flowers

A Moment of Beauty

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A little moment of beauty in a stressful time. I picked these a few minutes ago from the grass around the house to make a mini bouquet.

I’ve been doing this every spring since I can remember. I’d always pick them for Ma when I was a child and every year growing up until I no longer lived at home, and then I’d pick them to remember those wonderful years.

Pa once told me that wild violets were among his beloved mother’s favorite flowers. She died about seven months before I was born, but I knew Pa had loved her deeply, and they gave me one little connection to the grandma I’d never know.

Since 1991 I’ve put my little bouquet in this tiny vase, purchased from a small secondhand street seller in London on my husband’s and my August 1990 honeymoon. Another happy memory to add to the ritual.

And this year more than most, I am so grateful for all those 50 years of memories, woven like a tapestry in my heart. ♥️

In Bloom

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imageOver the weekend, my backdoor garden has come into bloom.

Except for a bit of weeding (which I, sadly, rarely get to), this garden is self-sustaining, filled with perennials, many of them gifted to me by my dear father before he died. The tea roses are from cuttings he brought from the Homestead (originally brought there from his mother’s tea roses in Massachusetts). My Grandma Reed died the summer before I was born, but I feel like I “know” her a little through the stories my father told me about her quiet, intelligent nature, her inventive and hearty cooking, and her beautiful flower gardens.

The iris are quintessentially my father: he loved this kind of large, colorful – and some scented – iris. These are all gifts from him, with his favorite being what he called the “blue and whites” that are in the foreground. I feature one, even, in my family-life-love-loss-hope-filled novel Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven.

We spoke many times about the mysteries of life, the Universe, energies, and what the afterlife might hold. I detail some of those conversations and thoughts in the novel as well – but I like to think that the tangible  beauty of this garden speaks to that in a different way. It blooms every year, all on its own, bringing joy, a feast for the senses, and happy memories that keep uplifting emotions and treasured people in the forefront of my thoughts.

And it reminds me yet again that love might change form, but it never truly dies.

Flowers in First Snow

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First snow, picture taken this morning, mid-November 2014, with dark purple pansies peeking through

(Excerpted from “Snow-Flakes”)

“Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow.”

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow