What a Day for A Daydream...

We drove into the Cascades, traveling along a winding road beside the Skykomish River. Suddenly the yellows and pinks joined chartreuse and mixed with golds and reds. We sighed at the stunning sights before us. Nature is so generous in her gifts!

I have never seen such vivid shades of deep pink among autumn leaves. I love the contrast of the pinks and reds with the lighter greens in this small stand of shrubs and trees.

A mountain stream splashed across the rocks, but the foliage surrounding the creek bed caught our eyes and held them tightly.

Along the path we chose to walk we found more dazzling colors mixed among the evergreens. There has not been a more beautiful fall in the Pacific Northwest since we moved here.

I say that Autumn is my favorite season. But, I know my fickle self. As soon as spring arrives and shows me her colorful bounty, I will be seduced.
Then I will be singing her praises!

A Blade of Grass

Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, "You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams."

Said the leaf indignant, "Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing."

Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again -- and she was a blade of grass.

And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, "O these autumn leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my winter dreams."

Kahil Gibran

Chapter 29, The Madman

All photography above is courtesy of our private collection and cannot be reproduced or used in any way without our explicit and written consent.

Hello Again!

The Sun Sets On The Sierra Nevada

I am heartbroken to see the news of the California fires, to know that people must leave their homes and sometimes even abandon their animals to flee to safety. Fleeing, a word charged with so much emotion. I can only imagine but never fully understand the dynamics of this. I am always attached to my home, not especially to the physical structure but to the feeling of safety I have when I am in it. I don't adjust well to moving; it always takes me several months to begin to feel rooted, even minimally, in a new place. I shudder at the horror these people face, the leaving, the loss of everything but perhaps a few items in a box and a few changes of clothing. I am impressed by those who put forth a positive attitude, by those who are just glad to be alive and do not worry about the rest. They see the devastation around them, have nowhere to go and no concrete plan for long-term resolution. They stand breathing in the smoky fumes which hover over much of the land and yet they say their thanks for being whole and remaining together as a family. Brave, strong, positive people. We want to help, but don't know where to even begin.

We have memories of time along the southern and central coasts of California, from San Simeon to Santa Monica, and points further south. I recall the open land a bit north of Malibu, hills high above the ocean with sprawling estates, and how I wondered what celebrity lived here or there. We saw magnificent sunsets along the Pacific as we drove along that area of the Pacific Coastal Highway, heading south to Santa Monica one week and north toward Carmel another. I think back on those trips and feel sick inside, knowing many of the places I found beautiful are now charred and left in ruins.

We returned last month from a long needed vacation along the California coast. Natural beauty thrilled us at every turn in the road. Kite-surfers just north of Santa Cruz filled the skies with bright colors and billowing sails which grabbed our attention as we drove along that fabulous Pacific Coast Highway toward Big Sur. We have driven it many times now. It never fails to amaze us in its extraordinary beauty with huge, rocky boulders and headlands jutting far into the surf. All make fine resting stops for hungry gulls and herons, for pelicans waiting for the perfect dinner meal. Through my binoculars I watched them fish while my husband took photographs of the seascapes coloring the canvas before us. Occasionally he stopped to gather stones rubbed smooth from years of rolling in the sandy ocean, stones we would take home as gifts to our garden, reminders of these lazy coastal days when joy surrounded us and thoughts of schedules slept soundly in Seattle.

We drove along the Bay searching out locations for photo ops, places where we could shoot pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge when the fog lifted. Fog. My husband is fascinated watching it roll into and out of the Bay. We were unable to get many sharp photos during a previous visit because the fog blanketed the Bay for a week. We hoped for better luck this visit. He ran along the edge of Golden Gate Park, later chasing the view along Lincoln Blvd where we were delighted to find a remarkable view that brought the Golden Gate Bridge up close and personal.

We drove to the Marina and found San Francisco Bay hidden under a layer of fog. We sat for a while on a bench watching sailboats move in and out of the low hanging clouds while we fed seagulls. Later we admired some of the boats moored nearby. We wanted to find "The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill" and drove toward Coit Tower, hoping a miracle would bring these brightly colored conures into sight. How exciting when we first found Judy Irving's film about Mark Bittner's life with these birds, a film we gave away as Christmas gifts last season. Judy is an award winning film-maker. Mark's story is arresting, especially for bird lovers like us. Judy and Mark will be in Seattle in November. We can hardly wait to meet them.

Those of you who know us or who have read this blog know how much we enjoy our time with the sea, that we sleep with our doors open to the sights and sounds of the surf, that we eat our breakfasts listening to the waves slap against the shore, see them break against the crags. We are calmed by the sounds and smells of the ocean and always find our nights and mornings in its company the most joyous parts of our trips. This one was especially peaceful to us. We slept with the sea for 2 weeks, awaking to seascapes like this one outside our door. Seabirds flocked to our balcony each morning ready for the toast or crackers we offered. Fog sometimes covers the headland and the sea in this place where we stay, but by late morning the fog burns away and blue skies are filled with seagulls and sunshine. When we arrive home we are lonely for the sea, seasick in fact, wanting our own retreat by the great Pacific. It is always hard to leave this place we find so comforting, where our sleep is so deeply restful.

During a visit to the Pt Reyes peninsula we saw Tule elk grazing on hills rising high above the Pacific near McClures Beach. Deer share meadows and pastures with cattle in nearby fields just beyond this lovely vista of Tomales Bay. We found rabbits scampering across the narrow, winding roads, and my husband saw his first owl sitting on a fencepost at sunset. Pt Reyes juts out into the Pacific Ocean 10 miles further than any other point on this coast. It is considered the windiest and foggiest area on the west coast. The San Andreas fault runs through this beautiful area bisecting it from the California mainland. There are multiple ecosystems with different plant and animal life residing within them across the peninsula's sandy coastline, estuaries, grassy hills, dry brushy cliffs, rocky seastacks, and tidepools. Discovery awaits us each time we visit, and we are always eager to return.

We left the Bay area and headed north along the coastline across Pt Reyes and beyond, heading to Mendocino, California. A mandatory stop was Glass Beach, a place which was once a dumping ground for the area. Now the glass returns to shore, tumbled smooth by years in the sea and dotting the shore in blue, green, brown, orange, and red. Buckets are the implements brought to this beach. Some even come with wagons. We carried a canvas bag and 2 plastic bags for liners. We brought home a full container of sand and glass which we were eager to separate. Greens and reds are my favorite pieces. Eventually we will display it in the garden or in the house.

In Mendocino we visited the Art Center where an old roommate was once a potter. I saw the wheels she used to throw her pieces, lingered there thinking how happy she was in this place. I saw the trail which leads to the ocean, a trail she walked every day no matter what the weather. We visited the gallery, saw beautiful art for sale, bought Chinese shard and sterling silver earrings for my sister, strolled through the gardens enjoying the fun garden art and benches made from rusty metals and wooden seats. We saw John Fisher, an artist who had just returned from Italy, carving a huge piece of stone he had named "The 3 Stages of Woman." I had never seen a piece of stone being carved, had never contemplated what the blank stone looked like before creation. Later I learned John had been in Mendocino when my friend was there some 20 years ago. We found a fabulous seafood restaurant on the Wharf in Ft. Bragg where I had my first sole paupiettes, thin pieces of sole wrapped around a crab mousse filling. There we met a woman whose husband is a abalone diver. It is against the law to sell abalone shells so she gave me 2 large ones as a gift. We were excited to add them to our box of California goodies from the trip.

We have missed our 2 week holiday when nothing mattered but our hearts' desires and clocks were unimportant. Appreciating nature was the business of the moment. A trip to Yosemite, watching the African penguins being fed at the aquarium, seeing hang-gliders sail over the Bay off the San Mateo Bridge, exploring Stanford University, and playing at UC Berkeley were all adventures we enjoyed. Descriptions of exotic food from all over the world filled the menus in many Bay area restuarants. Our favorite one was Tangerine in the Castro district. Delicious appetizers (especially the stuffed portabello mushrooms, spicy corn fritters, and yam cakes) accompanied exquisite entrees in Pacific Rim cuisine and left us groaning in hedonisitc pleasure which tickled our waiter. I did some Pacific NW PR and pleaded for consideration for a Tangerine in Seattle! Until then I will daydream.

All photography is courtesy of our private collection and cannot be used without our explicit and written permission.

Just So You Know...

Just a note to say I am very weary with the problems I continue to have with Blogger. These issues have been on-going for at least 3 months. I spend hours trying to get photos related to my posts to load into Blogger but have no luck whatsoever! I am inevitably left with a very sour taste and have little interest in blogging or in posting text without the accompanying photography. There have been beautiful flowers in the garden I could not share and wildlife strolling around our property. It took me weeks to get the Oregon post to load properly. I have no patience with these Blogger problems and have gotten no assistance from Blogger other than confirmation they are working on the issues. I may try to find a different host when I have more energy to direct there or close the blog entirely. The fun of posting has been lost in these efforts and frustration. :(

To Sleep With the Ocean

The central Oregon coast, north of Florence.
Photography made available from our private collection.
See reference note at the end of this post.

My husband and I usually celebrate July 4th with a road trip, not only because we enjoy the summer holiday free from his hectic job, but also because it is the anniversary of our engagement. I remember the July 4th when he kept waiting for the perfect moment to ask me to be his wife. We had a picnic beside the lake at a monastery outside Atlanta where Trappist Monks had built their home 40 years earlier.

Enjoying a peaceful holiday as we talked about the future we'd dreamed of sharing, we watched ducks drifting in the currents of the warm lake that summer afternoon. We played a board game similar to Trivial Pursuit while we ate fresh fruit and chicken wings. We were lazy in the summer heat.

Later we sat quietly together inside the Abbey gazing at the architecture and design, aware of the holiness of this place and moment. We walked the grounds near the store where the monks bake and sell their breads and nurture their beautiful bonsai garden. Though neither of us is traditionally religious, we enjoyed experiencing the contemplative atmosphere in which the monks live their lives and the serenity which bathed us in light and love.

In the evening we dined atop a luxury hotel, watching fireworks through the glass walls as the restaurant slowly revolved, giving us views of the city from every direction. Several firework displays around the city dazzled us that night, all seeming to celebrate our love and the future we had moved toward for two and a half years. I went to sleep happier than I had ever been, wrapped in love and promises of our future.

Since that July, our favorite way of celebrating this holiday is to retreat to the central Oregon coast and sleep with the ocean. We find a room which has a private balcony overhanging the sandy beach, a place where high tides lap the rocks and drizzle sand just below our room. We forget tsunami warnings when we climb into the sound of waves as they tumble to shore. We are hypnotized by the sound of the water, the smell of the ocean air, and the flight of the birds outside our room as morning wakes us.

The gulls visit us each day and eat from our hands. At sunset campfires dot the shore beneath our balcony, and we eagerly anticipate the beautiful light display which will soon shimmer in colorful reflection on the wet sand. Many beachcombers bring along their own personal stash of fireworks to the evening’s orchestra of light. They'll give us our own private show of color glittering the evening sky high above the surf.

We drive the coast during the days, exploring familiar areas again, taking in the seascapes with new eyes, always struck with wonder at the magical hand of nature in some detail we never noticed in the past.

We see old trees hanging above the ocean, wondering how many years they have lived on this earth. We notice the sea stacks of rocks and earth positioned far into the surf, open invitations to breakers which pound them with foaming, salty water.

We watch the sea lather the shore where someone wrote a name, see each letter erased bit by bit in rhythmic motion. Birds travel between shore and rocks, some roosting far out on craggy ledges which overhang the sea. We watch them through the binoculars. We study the tides to learn our best chance for uncovering hidden treasures. We won't disturb tidal pools, but we will take home agates and beautiful rocks left in the sand, some washed smoothe; all beautiful. But, mostly we’ll take home memories of days and nights seasoned with love and tranquility, steeped in the comfort of the constant sea. We are already counting the days until we will sleep once again with the ocean – next month we will head to the northern California coast.

One day we will own property on this coast, a place to retreat each season. In spring, summer and fall we will sleep with the door open to the air, to the smells and sounds of the surging water. We'll watch the winter storms and migrating whales in colder months. It will be ours, the place where we can sleep together with the sea.



All photography from the Oregon coast is from our private collection. Photography from our private collection is protected by copyright and cannot be reproduced, published, or used in any manner without our written permission.
Enlarge each photograph by clicking on the image.

The photograph inside the Abbey, the Monastery of the Holy Spirit, is published
with the kind permission of James Behrens, photographer.
It demonstrates the soft light in the aisle which filters
through the stained glass windows.

My Life: A to Z Meme

Grape Vines, Napa Valley, California
Photography from our private collection.

I was tagged by rdl to do the A-Z meme, so here are a few random facts about me and my life.

A - accent: Awwww…bless your heart, honey. Let’s see – as I sit on the veranda drinking my lemonade, I guess I can admit to a bit of a southern drawl.

B - booze: white zinfandel; sparkling white wines; Margarita: on the rocks with salted rim, and frozen with strawberries and sugared rim

C - chore I hate: I don’t like chores, so I don’t do them! ;)

D - dogs/cats: none at the moment – Sheltie and Terrier went to "pupppy heaven" at ages 18 and 15, respectively. :( Miss them very much and will be puppy parents again one day.

E - essential electronics: computer, cell phone and charger

F - favorite perfume/cologne: Carolina Herrera 212

G - gold/silver: gold most often, but occasionally silver

H - hometown: Atlanta, GA

I - insomnia: yes

J - job title: “the happy gardener” but once a social worker and even earlier an English teacher

K - kids: none

L - living arrangements: in a house with my man, surrounded by lush gardens, birds, squirrels, deer, and raccoons - with an occasional nearby bear sighting in spring.

M - most admired trait: sensitivity

N - number of sexual partners: married

O - overnight hospital stays: one at age 3

P - phobia: snakes, shots, germs – anti-bacterial wipes after shopping carts!

Q - quote: Be the change you want to see in the world ~ Mahatma Gandhi

R - religion: none – eastern philosophy

S - siblings: one sister

T - time I usually wake up: depends on what time I go to bed – I usually sleep in 4 hour intervals.

U - unusual talent: beautiful gift wrapping

V - vegetable I refuse to eat: none – I even like rutabagas now!

W - worst habit: interrupting people!

X - x-rays: lumbar, left hip, left leg

Y - yummy foods I make: rum cake, home-made veggie soup, spoon cornbread, curried chicken salad

Z - zodiac sign: Virgo

Just Outside Our Door

All photography courtesy of our private collection.
As I witness nature opening her magical doors of color, shape, fragrance, and form I am filled with wonder. No matter how many years I have lived on this earth, it is always the same each spring. I am stunned at the intensity of beauty before me, awed by the design and the mystery of perfect creation. One window closes and another opens. The show is always choreographed in perfect harmony in this splendid season of spring.

This morning I heard the drilling before my eyes could locate him. There he was, red hat sitting high on his head met by the full red scarf draped around his neck, drilling for sap and the insects drawn to it. The red-breasted sap sucker was back in the same tree he sat in on Saturday when my husband went flying out in the chilly rain to get a better view and to try to photograph him. Today I got one shot, not close enough. We need a better lens for zooming. It is thrilling to see this bird's red head contrasting the green leaves, and I am happily content to observe him hard at work.

Yesterday I sat outside as night approached, watching my husband loading his wheelbarrow with his gardening tools, my eye searching for the bird who was singing loudly. Finally I found him on the top limb of our highest evergreen. He was too far away for me to even guess what kind of bird he was. I could only determine his approximate size. I listened carefully. He sang his song, repeating the notes in a rhythmic series. Silence....then he began again. In the distance another voice joined the concert with almost the exact order of notes in similar pitch. The repetition was so pronounced I thought at first an echo was resounding across the elevation. Suddenly wings met air, and I was left alone contemplating this extraordinary language which brings pleasure to my life as each morning unfolds and each evening closes my day. I instinctively move to the courtyard to sit and listen, to observe and take in these wonders which live just outside our door.

Each tulip, sunlit and glowing, takes me fully outside myself as I examine the way the light falls. The sunlight illuminates the petals from the inside out, making them seem almost transparent. The blue irises are blooming now amidst the carpet of candytuft which sprinkles the bank in white trails of flowers. My eyes move toward the ground through the tiny blue lithodora blooms, and I watch an earthworm working the soil, not yet mulched. I am glad for the turning and aeration of the earth that holds our plants and trees. I wonder if the robin will see the worm before he is once again hidden deep within the rich, blackness. I see the butterfly move among the tulip blooms under the weeping cherry and marvel at its beginning. I feel so acutely aware of every nuance of nature as I watch him flicker in the mauve and purple Angeliques. My mind wanders to Shardad Rohani's "Connie's Butterfly" in which the piano truly paints the butterfly's flight. I remember the first time I heard this music and how my body responded.

When I use the sprinkler nozzle to water the hanging basket near the large bird feeder I feel myself excited with anticipation. I know the chickadees will soon hear the water and come rushing to me. They fly directly toward the water and play in the mist, dodging the heavier spray but always getting their feathers wet. It is a game we play on warm days. We have 5 birdbaths on this property, yet the sound of the running water is the real lure for these playful birds. Sometimes as many as 40 chickadees dot the evergreen. Like tiny Christmas ornaments they sit above the feeder. They appear so suddenly I wonder where they were before the sound of the water caught their attention.

Above the magenta lilac bloom a bright periwinkle sky reminds me of other summer days when as a young girl I lay on my back looking up through the treetops. I was mesmerized then, making images of white clouds, watching my art change with the wind. It all felt surreal - my altered state of consciousness, though I didn't know the term as a child. So many "faces" looked down upon me as I gazed reverently above, always intrigued with shapes and movement. I've created a thousand pieces of sky art, each one different, uniquely mine.

Friday we saw our first hummingbirds of the season...3 at once playing in the top of a large cedar, whizzing and darting above the tallest branch, then lower and back up again. My husband was thrilled. He is always wistful to hear about my daily encounters with the tiny natural treasures, encounters which he misses as he busies himself inside an office far from nature's bounty. I see the hummers refuel their small tanks with sugar water in the mornings as I stand at the kitchen sink. Later in the afternoon they will fly in and out of the front rock garden enjoying the perennials we planted. It is a joy I never take for granted. Each sighting is as delightful as the first.

Wisteria hangs now on the arbor in clustered clumps of pale purple which fall in abandon over the trellis. The air is scented as I approach, and I react to the sweet fragrance by moving closer. Sometimes the sheer beauty of this garden overwhelms me. My eye catches the chartreuse blooms of the euphorbia behind the lavender laden arbor, the contrast making each more glorious. We will bring out the glass hummingbird feeders and hang them back in the rock garden since the perennials are not yet ready to nurture our tiny friends. We are happy the wisteria will serve as a temporary paradise during the coming days.

I love the way the oxalis is peeping out of an old tree stump. This clover-looking plant was a St. Patrick' Day gift I bought my husband a few years ago and is now living happily in the stump, rich with nutrients. It has never been more full or beautiful. The clematis at the edge of this bed is filled with blooms now as it winds its way up another arbor. Soon the vine will wrap the legs of the wooden arbor and by summer's end will hang overhead. We will nail a round wooden top to a very low, small tree stump here near the arbor. The stump is still strong and will serve as a base to the squirrel feeder we will mount. This will be a feasting table where corn and nuts are the breakfast buffet we give our precious squirrels. If we get too late a start on the day they place their orders by knocking on the door! Some were born here, none venture very far away, and one, a permanent grazer until dark, never leaves the bottom of the largest birdfeeder. He talks about the early bird getting the worm and laughs all day as he snacks heartily!

If I ever forget for a second the extraordinary beauty of this earth, one step outside our door reminds me that it is always near me, vast and omnipresent. Nature, the greatest artist of all, has painted this place where we live in every color on her palette. My heart sings.

Poetry Thursday - Carman

All photography courtesy of our private collection.

As you read the poem I have selected and see the photographs I have shared, click on each one to enlarge it and take a walk with me through the gardens. The sunlight drapes the tulips in a glittering light which renders the petals almost translucent. See the Royal Star Magnolia's bloom of pure white splendor. There is a tiny spider climbing one of the pink tulip buds...can you see it? The weeping cherry tree is losing its blooms so that it can dress itself in green while the pink and purple tulips dance around it. I see the beginning of a bouquet my husband has planted for me when my eyes find the yellow tulip buds not yet open. The gifts of this garden await my eyes each morning, tulips singing to me through my kitchen window and shining gloriously, speaking to me of love and nature's precious mysteries.

Beauty is always there just waiting to be found.

EARTH VOICES











I

I heard the spring wind whisper
Above the brushwood fire,
"The world is made forever
Of transport and desire.

"I am the breath of being,
The primal urge of things;
I am the whirl of star dust,
I am the lift of wings.

"I am the splendid impulse
That comes before the thought,
The joy and exaltation
Wherein the life is caught.

"Across the sleeping furrows
I call the buried seed,
And blade and bud and blossom
Awaken at my need.

"Within the dying ashes
I blow the sacred spark,
And make the hearts of lovers
To leap against the dark."











II

I heard the spring light whisper
Above the dancing stream,
"The world is made forever
In likeness of a dream.

"I am the law of planets,
I am the guide of man;
The evening and the morning
Are fashioned to my plan.

"I tint the dawn with crimson,
I tinge the sea with blue;
My track is in the desert,
My trail is in the dew.

"I paint the hills with color,
And in my magic dome
I light the star of evening
To steer the traveller home.

"Within the house of being,
I feed the lamp of truth
With tales of ancient wisdom
And prophecies of youth."












III

I heard the spring rain murmur
Above the roadside flower,
"The world is made forever
In melody and power.

"I keep the rhythmic measure
That marks the steps of time,
And all my toil is fashioned
To symmetry and rhyme.

"I plow the untilled upland,
I ripe the seeding grass,
And fill the leafy forest
With music as I pass.

"I hew the raw, rough granite
To loveliness of line,
And when my work is finished,
Behold, it is divine!

"I am the master-builder
In whom the ages trust.
I lift the lost perfection
To blossom from the dust."














IV

Then Earth to them made answer,
As with a slow refrain
Born of the blended voices
Of wind and sun and rain,
"This is the law of being
That links the threefold chain:
The life we give to beauty
Returns to us again."

~William Bliss Carman~

"Earth Voices" is reprinted from April Airs: A Book of New England Lyrics. Bliss Carman. Boston: Small, Maynard and Company, 1916.





Bliss Carman was born in New Brunswick, Canada in 1861 with a maternal ancestry traced back to Ralph Waldo Emerson. He received undergraduate, and graduate degrees in New Brunswick, Canada, leaving to attend Oxford and Edinburgh but did not complete post graduate work there. He returned to New Bruanswick where he taught French and practiced law prior to leaving for Harvard. He did not complete post graduate work at Harvard but moved instead to NYC where he worked as an editor with several periodicals. He published books of essays and volumes of poetry, did notable editorial work on poetry anthologies, and was a successful speaker. He met Mary Perry King and her husband in 1896 and did collaborative work with Mrs. King, writing books on personality development, and work on masques, and intepretive dance. He relocated near this couple in Connecticut and worked with Mrs. King in a summer school program for many years. Carman was treated during the last decade of his life for tuberculosis and died in 1929 in Connecticut. Bliss Carman, the unofficial poet laureate of Canada, was buried in New Brunshwick, Canada.

Savor the Moments

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
~Robert Frost~

All photography courtesy of our private collection.

The earth awakes and so do I. Spring’s cycle of rebirth stirs me into life again, just like the daffodils and the fragrant hyacinths scenting the air as they sway outside our door. I am drawn to the courtyard each morning like clockwork. Dawn breaks, and light slips quietly across the sky while I tip-toe down the rocky steps, made of natural boulders, and head into the garden’s secret room where bleeding hearts hang down in pink and white droplets next to ferns.

 I move past primroses of every color and an early blooming mauve rhododendron which stands tall and stately between pink lenton roses blooming since February. My eyes move quickly. I check for new green tips, hints of life. The rock garden, only a year old but so full of life, bears witness to the lively movement beneath the rich, brown mulch. Every clump of earth displaced by growth pushing up catches my eye. Old stalks of last year’s treasures remain as markers for our keen observation of new life.

I walk past a mound of heather, full and fuzzy in its purple haze.I see the day lilies and their newly formed leaves, lavender stalks which will soon flower, small azalea buds next to open blossoms. Further down I notice sedum which is now high above the ground, happily transforming into the full succulent plant whose blooms will turn from chartreuse to mauve to cinnamon through the coming months. Stems of Asian lilies are rising now on each side of the Japanese Maple. Campanula is green and full and waiting only for warmer sun to burst into purple blossom. The Cape Fuschias surprised me with their evergreen foliage in winter. The greenery in the cold, wet months was a welcome sight. Soon they will be heavy with butter blooming tubes like honeysuckle. Just below them are the orange Hardy Fuschias which will glow like the tips of burning cigars in the summer light. Both will feed the hummingbirds all season. Beneath the outer limits of the apple tree’s limbs the Euonymous shrubs sit with leaves mottled in green and yellow, veined like marble. They move along the lower garden path and bring yellow light to the perennial garden when the daffodils finish their song.

Large boulders dot this landscape, anointing it with status as I move down the path past the rhododendron heavy with buds, beyond the azaleas about to burst into bloom. Along the trail of bearded iris, their foliage tall and green and pointed, I reach the sword ferns and hydrangeas leafing out now, soon to be huge balls of pink, white, lavender, and blue.

My heart is beating faster as I walk. It is thrilling to see the rebirth of this land we own, this land which my husband loves even more than I do. I see his long arms in each shrub, on every tree trunk that stands proudly, now clean and open to the light from its late winter pruning.
I see his sweat in the green flora peeping forth, remember his placing every plant in these gardens last summer. Back to our courtyard, I gaze out over the landscape and remember him creating these gardens from earth and rock, removing tree trunks long dead, digging out a concrete wall buried long ago under soil, unearthing and removing dead roots, pulling weeds, chopping, shaping. These gardens are the diligent work of my husband, his labor a gift to me. I see his love of this land, his pride in the home we have made where we share our lives. It is like a portrait he is painting, done with love and exactness, with design and purpose.

I am awakened by the birth of spring in these gardens and by the love of this man whose hands untangle the plants’ tightened roots to give them life. These are the same hands which hold mine close and safe and nurture me with tenderness. It is time for me to climb back into the warmth of our bed and savor the moments left for sleep.

Too soon the sun will rise higher in the sky and call him to leave our bed to begin this day.

Poetry Thursday - Hafiz of Shiraz

Photography Credit: "In the Treetops"
from our personal collection

         All the Hemispheres

Leave the familiar for a while.
Let your senses and bodies stretch out

Like a welcomed season
Onto the meadows and shores and hills.

Open up to the Roof.
Make a new water-mark on your excitement
And love.

Like a blooming night flower,
Bestow your vital fragrance of happiness
And giving
Upon our intimate assembly.

Change rooms in your mind for a day.

All the hemispheres in existence
Lie beside an equator
In your heart.

Greet Yourself
In your thousand other forms
As you mount the hidden tide and travel
Back home.

All the hemispheres in heaven
Are sitting around a fire
Chatting

While stitching themselves together
Into the Great Circle inside of
You.

~ Hafiz~

From: The Subject Tonight is Love
translated by Daniel Ladinsky

The dates of his life are not exact, but it is believed Hafiz of Shiraz, beloved Persian poet, was born in 1320s AD in South Central Iran and lived until about the age of 69. Like Rumi he was one of the great Sufi poets belonging to a spiritual movement seeking truth and wisdom. The Sufi Movement focused on unity, balance, harmony, love, and beauty, with universal arms which were respectful of all religious teachings and beliefs. He used the ghazal, a strict poetic form of expression like the English sonnet, to create his poetry, but it is believed he may not have actually written any of his poems with pen in hand. He likely sang them or recited them aloud. He was the greatest of all lyrical poets but was not as well known in the western world. Hafiz may have composed as many as 693 poems during his life. According to Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Haifz is a poet for poets." His poetry was referred to as the Songs of Hafiz.

Hafiz image: Artwork from cover of
I Heard God Laughing - Renderings of Hafiz,
by Daniel Ladinsky