Singing in the garden.

A finch was singing an exuberant evening song, as I gathered my trowel and gloves and empty plastic pots into the garage, planning to call it a day. It was 7:00, after all. But then I remembered I had wanted to take a picture of the rudbeckia, even though it is far from blooming; it’s huge, and so robust — much bigger than I imagined it would get, when I planted it last fall. I didn’t take its picture after all, but I did notice that my eight butternut squash plants nearby looked a little dry, so I dragged the hose over and gave them all a long drink. The pansies needed deadheading, so I did that as well….

Pineapple Guava

Today was warm enough that I could comfortably spend a few hours in my garden, and the whole time feel that I was floating from one blessed task from another, in my little piece of Paradise. Many of the plans I made in the fall are coming to fruition; the plants that I transplanted to and from the front and back gardens, and the new ones I installed, are thriving and starting to bloom. I am so thankful.

The area by the front door is still somewhat of a hodgepodge, at least while the California poppies and nigella are doing their thing. When they are done it will be a little less crowded, the clary sage (three plants!) will bloom, and that scent will quicken soul and body.

Nigella, Love-in-a-Mist, about to open.
Borage volunteer.

More and more, I realize that with home and garden things, the only one I need to please is myself — and I am trying to be easier to please. Last summer when I asked my old gardening friend to look at my garden with me, I thought she would be be wise about helping me with decisions, as she has known and helped me at various times since we were neighbors, decades ago. But back then we were similarly limited in what we could do with our gardens.

This time I was surprised and disillusioned. She scrutinized and judged my garden according to the principles she goes by in her own garden, which covers a couple of acres, and for which she has a full-time gardener to execute her designs. She told me I need more “white space.” After she went home I thought long and hard about that; I knew that what I really wanted was less white space.

Bugloss is also in the borage family.

This afternoon I planted two of the four tomato plants I bought recently. I am so excited about growing tomatoes again, now that I am using the sunnier front yard for things that need full sun. I also set out into my planter boxes the parsley and basil that looked like one plant each, in 4-inch pots. In the last few years these are so often actually several plants that are growing all crowded together. In this case I separated out eight tiny parsley plants and eleven basil plants! Of course, so tightly packed like that, many of them have minimal root systems, so they don’t usually all survive. I wish I could buy a six-pack instead, but such a thing isn’t to be had.

There are too many things I want to tell about, having to do with my beloved garden. They will have to spill over into another post, soon. I do want to say that I often think about how much my late husband would have liked this garden. I’m pretty sure he would be, or is, very happy that I took out the swimming pool and managed, with a lot of help, to create this special place. My heart is singing — and the olive trees are in bloom.

The image vs. relentless earth.

NOSTOS

There was an apple tree in the yard —
this would have been
forty years ago — behind,
only meadows. Drifts
of crocus in the damp grass.
I stood at that window:
late April. Spring
flowers in the neighbor’s yard.
How many times, really, did the tree
flower on my birthday,
the exact day, not
before, not after? Substitution
of the immutable
for the shifting, the evolving.
Substitution of the image
for relentless earth. What
do I know of this place,
the role of the tree for decades
taken by a bonsai, voices
rising from the tennis courts —
Fields. Smell of the tall grass, new cut.
As one expects of a lyric poet.
We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.

-Louise Glück

Van Gogh, Orchard with Peach Trees in Blossom

 

They burn with a mad love.

“Our Holy Fathers tell us that the insurmountable stone that blocks the tomb here represents death, its finality and insurmountability for man. They could not move the stone, no man could move the stone. Yet the Myrrhbearers do not care about this fact. They do not care about the seemingly immovable rock; they do not care about death’s supposed finality; they burn with a mad love and trust in our Lord, and they seek him with their entire existence. They seek communion with Him, they trust that He will restore communion, regardless of the stone, regardless of death.

“Of course, their faith will be rewarded as they will find the stone rolled away. They will find an empty tomb and hear of a resurrection; a rebirth from an unused tomb, just as our Lord was previously born from a Virgin womb. The stone is moved by divine power, God has conquered death. Life has conquered death. It is now not death that has the final word, but life. Communion is restored.”

-Deacon Charalambos

For Myrrhbearers Sunday