August reveries...

August is the cathedral of summer. And yet, if I sit on my chair on the upper floors and look outside my window, I see impending changes taking place on the horizon. Far in the outlying distance, over to where the mountains are, even though you can’t see them, but you know they’re there—faithful as they are; like some ancient proverb erased from the horizon by an utterly impassive sky, there lays secrets untold. Indications of what’s to come are forming. For there, in its very own cathedral of summer stand the tall trees, canopies already changing into their muted greens and burnt reds outfits, and the morning sun is the mayor indicator of it all; for it has started the process of mellowing down, and it has already acquired that yellow tinted quality to it—muffled and hazy, so proper of the autumnal light.  Yes, like children at play, we are tumbling down that old hill called 'summer' onto the new season.   

I see the changes all around me well too clearly. My favorite part of the garden—the path to the beginning of every enchanting moment has been changing too; gradually, but surely.

I love this unpretentious little pea pebble pathway that to me takes me to my favorite place on this earth. This is the entrance to my garden, the place where Black-eyed Susans and hostas sleep under the wild lushness of the Virginia creeper, and the place where voluntary snapdragons and wood ferns play a magical tune with summer breezes. This is the place where I’m the gypsy of my heart and the Alice of my Wonderland.

Billowy grasses and dry-climate perennials give this pebbly path a rugged look, while the little round table and chairs, that old flair of the French cafes without the commotion of the big cities.

It is a magical place to me, and perhaps it really is because, that’s the sacred ground where I’d usually come to pray and just be that humble child before her Father... it is the most private place in the garden, and one of my favorites.

A new crocosmia bush is growing there now. Cousins to the gladiola, with brilliant flame-red flowers, and a tall habit, and at the far end a butterfly bush in purple glories…

Lavender garden phlox will be hugging this enchanting space next year... 

And perhaps one more rose in here? 

Yellow yellow… I love the color yellow, and these little yellow flowers are the queen of my garden this year... I want more of them, more more!

And then, before you enter the garden... this to welcome you into it!

Happiness and mystery and strange creatures all mingle and live here; teaching us about the wonder and the mystery of existence...  and I… I am that little girl living her life under the soft moonlight, the shimmering sky, the rays of the moon, and bunch of sparkling stars, I have nothing I have everything, I have just what I need and my dreams are beyond the clouds. 

“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.”  (Beryl Markham, West with the Night).