July miseries

July is a cruel month.  Have I mentioned that already?  Lush green grasses have withered and become ashen, and in some places a few strands of dead, yellow grass are showing up… some of my potted hostas have been badly scorched, and every houseplant had to be brought inside again—some of their beautiful leaves charred and stressed, and the perennials are looking droopy and exhausted from the blazing sun of July…

This is high desert climate, and whatever patch of grass we want to keep green it must be property and faithfully watered each and every day… I am thankful for our sprinkler system and precious water.

In fact, it’s been so hot around here that I have started envisioning those cooler, cozier autumnal days when the sun shines kinder on my windows in softer golden globules of light, and such was the spirit the other day, that I was prompted to change things around the house—put away the summer bouquets and bring in the calmer greenery of pines and fairy lights of cooler days.  

 

When winter comes around again, and my little world will be cold and white and windows frosted in glittery ice, then I will miss my roses again, and will be wanting to see my house beautified again with summer bouquets of yesterday’s peonies and roses…  

Roses—freshly cut, dried, fake, silk—they will always bring a warm glow to my vision, thawing mind and muscle from their endless wintering.

 

And when it is summer I will be dreaming of winter and when it is winter I will be dreaming of summer... because that’s just the way I am… always changing, always a contradiction within my soul…

The grapevine in the farther corner of the garden has been growing madly.  I decided to let it do what it dictates, but always under my watchful eye and care.  I’m doing this mostly to attract those beautiful Northern Flickers to my garden again this fall… these birds love to feed from very ripe grapes and when my little world turns orange and light acquires that certain ginger tint of the cooler days again, they will be coming by to feed from them.  So, this vine, is just for them, although I’m afraid I’ve started letting it grow a little late in the year and, perhaps, I won’t be seeing any ripe grapes this fall after all? 

The other two vines (which are the only ones I let be this spring); however, are fat with grapes, which will be used for all my green juices this fall.

I always like to read what I was doing a year ago this time, so I went to the little white cottage, and meandered through the pages of time to find me there….  This is what I was doing:

“This afternoon I went outside and collected bunches of hydrangeas to make bouquets... It was hot, but under the canopies of trees that protrude from the woods it felt comfortable and tepid and I found myself mystified by the sounds of summer, and the dark emerald shades of the woods, quiet and timing with life as they are.  This is what I love about summer, the strength and vigor of it.  The being wild and slow, old and yet growing young buds of dreams. For me, it is a magic that must be written in the old pages of my soul. We are all wanderers on this earth, and my heart is full of wonder, and my soul deep with dreams...”

I told you so... I’m an enigma wrapped in a contradiction.  Loving summer, hating July and wishing for June in December.  But always always loving the solitude and grandeur of Nature in whatever season...

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

― Mary Oliver