Monthly Archives: May 2025

Bees and good-byes.

my garden, , , , , ,
Bee on yerba buena.

Good-byes not to you, Dear Readers, but to the beautiful friends that are the trees and flowers, bees and blooms of my garden, as I prepare to set out on my travels. Most of the days of the year I am home and can tend to their needs, even if it is often less than optimal care and attention I give. Now, in May, the most flowery and gorgeous of my local botanical world, to leave it all…

I keep reminding myself that it will be okay. There is an automatic irrigation system, there are friends and neighbors and landscapers and possibly even a daughter, to caretake in my absence. Yesterday morning it must have been God Who woke me up at 4:00 a.m. so that I found myself in the garden before the sun rose, and witnessed a leaky irrigation hose spraying against the pine tree instead of giving drink to the plants on down the line. I turned off the system and later on Trusty Alejandro was able to come and repair that, and another leak that he discovered by testing the whole system. If I hadn’t quite unusually been out to witness that (and to bathe in the heavenly and oh-so-earthly atmosphere at that time of day), it likely would have wasted that precious water several times a week, and many plants would have suffered before I got back. For anyone who is not aware of the fact, our summer season in California is typically rainless.

In my pre-trip melancholy I keep going out to peruse the little kingdom that God has made me a steward and a lover of, and I see new and amazing things every time. I also find more little weeds to pull, or yellowed leaves to pinch off. There will probably be dirty dishes in the sink when I depart, but I hope no spent irises or Iceland poppy stems standing tall and naked.

I was surprised by the blossoms on the yerba buena ground cover under the pine tree, though I know I’ve seen it in bloom before. The bees are crazy about those tiny flowers. I know the one photo of the bumblebee is blurry, but it was cute the way he was hugging the cup of nectar while drinking…

…or losing his head entirely in his delight:

Two sides of my garden have tall dodonaea or hopbushes providing a backdrop of ever-changing colors for the other plants, and a sort of screen that makes the garden more cozy. Right now a couple of the bushes have changed into their pink outfits.

Today the new Landscaper Dan is coming very belatedly to make a plan for things he might finish up while I’m gone. It gives me extra comfort to know that a person who appreciates the garden needs even more than I do will be paying attention. The area by the front door that we planted together in November makes me feel that I am in the middle of the prairie. Those droopy-petaled pink flowers are echinacea pallida. I’d tried growing them from seed several times without success, but Dan got three plants which have been very happy, and happy to bloom.

My arborist friend A. came and pruned the pineapple guava (feijoa) a few weeks ago. It is so big now, in its tenth year in the garden, and covered with those blooms that are so delicious to eat in themselves. I wish you could come over and have a taste.

I can’t stop swooning over the penstemon — that color!

Soon I plan to be back with stories while exploring in Greece,
but for now, God bless and keep you, Dear Garden!

I Have Started to Say

death, poetry, time, ,

The last stanza of this poem brings to mind the advice to “Die before you die.” It has been attributed to Rumi and to C.S. Lewis, and I’ve heard Orthodox Christians echo the saying. St. Paul said, “I die daily,” and also, “I am crucified with Christ.” Whatever all these people meant, our final death we are definitely instructed to keep in mind, and as the poet says, “learn” something about it — though it’s not clear that he was numbering his days in the Christian fashion.

But it was the second stanza that caught my attention here, Larkin’s description of the disorienting effect of considering time and ageing. The images capture what I often feel.

I HAVE STARTED TO SAY

I have started to say
“A quarter of a century”
Or “thirty years back”
About my own life.

It makes me breathless
It’s like falling and recovering
In huge gesturing loops
Through an empty sky.

All that’s left to happen
Is some deaths (my own included).
Their order, and their manner,
Remain to be learnt.

-Philip Larkin

Philip Larkin, by Humphrey Ocean

 

Blue-eyed grass can’t hide from me.

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If I hadn’t been benignly neglecting my planter boxes, I’d have butternut squashes or snow peas growing on the trellis, and zucchini as well. As it is, volunteer sweet peas have flourished, because those boxes are irrigated on a timer that gives them a little water every day. This week I pulled out all the burr clover and aphid-infested collards and Swiss chard, to make room for the flowers, and to plant more seeds.

We cut the snowball bush viburnum down to stumps, because it needs to be given a fresh start. I promise I will give it water during dry spells as well. In former days we put the hose on it in summer, and I don’t know why I stopped.

Bursts of purples meet the eye all over the back garden, from the lobelia…

…to the penstemon…

…to the Blue-Eyed Grass hiding behind a pomegranate bush:

I know that when I go on my trip next week, I won’t be thinking of my garden. But right now, I am reluctant to say good-bye, and I’m thinking of all the changes that will happen without me seeing them. Probably by the time I return the sweet peas will be a little crisp.

But more blossoms might have emerged on the lemon tree.

You know I’ll be sure to let you know.