May in the garden

Ah May you are such a delicious creature… you fill my cup to the brim with gladness beyond description…

Days are not long enough; hours slip though my fingers like water. My tongue lacks sufficient praises and my heart songs enough with which to thank you for all you bring and all you let me see, smell and feel…

I thank you, Lord of all creation for every little thing in Nature, every goodness and every virtuousness that comes from your hand… My soul thank you and praise you for every gift you bestow upon my soul and for every sign of your presence left scattered around for me to discover and be at awe... for every thread of petal and wisp of perfume; for every feather and every bird.

 
I visit and revisit my garden a dozen times a day, and there's not a time when I won't stand in deep contemplation at all which surrounds me... the very little things; every big thing I see and touch and smell... for every presence and every petal.

With a tenderness and love that nobody who hasn’t ever taken part in this process of creation can experience, I fall to my knees and ask for more… more, more… more time, more Mays, longer days, an extension of the season of love and petals and birds and a prolonged season of beauty.

I cannot stop coming here dreaming here living my hours and days here—among blooms anew like feather wings… everyday is a new form of life a new blossom a new green crowned head breaking the soil as perennials push through the earth in a wonderful new beginning—like a birth, filling the earth with hope and joy and a new glory each day.

But everything in the garden is as ephemeral as life itself, and the green-crowned woodnymphs of my forest are vanishing in front of my eyes with the same swiftness and amazement in which they had arrived…  the sumptuous flowers of the crabapples and cherry trees, the sublime lilac bouquets, the white as snow Viburnum and Snowball flowers—where have they gone to?  Show me your paths that I may follow!   

And yet, life in the garden is also a succession of life itself, a circle of life and a string of pearls; one following the next in a glorious chain of blooms…. And thus, right now the garden is ready for its inaugural and splendorous show of roses and peonies…  I can hardly wait to see my roses in bloom; the old ones and the new ones!  And the garden is so appreciative, I should mention, too.  For it amazes me how it has responded to my care since I came back to it… every bush and shrub has improved immensely, every rose recovered and expanded… as if in response to my care is reciprocating in a thousand blessings...

Gypsy Journeys

Their gypsy camp, may not be as beautiful and perfumed as their last one was. It neither is as secluded, and you won’t find that many trees either. But the gypsy couple is not complaining. They are stationed just by the water; right above the big rocks and right by where an impressive dam let its waters flow down their channels in a clash of thunder—its liquid music serenating them all day long; calming their spirits and making them feel as in a sleepy haze, while the songs of birds follow them everywhere…

Because neighboring campsites are a bit closer to each other than what the gypsy girl would had preferred, she decided to make their space a little bit more private by hanging an assortment of fabrics around their tent. This not only provided instant privacy, but it also detracted them from the sun and the wind and it made everything looked much prettier! What would the gypsy girl do without her mandalas and veils, one must have to wonder!

 

They set their chairs and little table right by the edge of the cliff, and immediately went to prepare their lunch, for they were already famished with hunger. This time the gypsy girl made garbanzo soup with veggie meat and rice and the Fisherman went on preparing his favorite grilled chicken...

Then the gypsy girl got busy washing the dishes while her Fisherman went down to the river to do his favorite thing...

After the gypsy girl had finished washing the dishes, she went to sit down by the edge of the river to watch her Fisherman fish, hoping he would not caught one of those awful things-carps that were seen everywhere rising up their massive heads about the water.  Huge fishes over 30lb coming clean out of the water… 

The gypsy girl had never seen such a display of the unusual while at camping and she couldn’t stop screaming in awe, impressed as she was by the spectacular splashes that those leaping carps could make… It was sorts of like watching a horror movie.  She pondered and wondered if perhaps by night the Loch Ness Monster, Nessie, would too appeared on the calmed waters and she’d get to see it stretching up its long neck as it glided along the murky waters under a bright moon. 

She read and played with her camera and she talked to God, and followed the routs of the yellow-bellied birds that were constantly chasing each other from tree to tree... 

 

 

While the Fisherman was fishing down there, a neighboring camper approached to say hello, and he told the gypsy girl how the ancient sturgeons in this river can weight around 80 to 200 pounds and how when it is windy such as on the previous nights, you can see a ball of wind formed of dust heading towards the campsite, swirling and singing above the waters.  His stories were amazing and totally true.

Inside the gypsy caravan it felt toasty and cozy with sunshine slithering through veil covered windows. She loves it here so much she might never want to leave!

At 7:55 pm a mellowed golden sun stretched atop the water creating glowing floating stars that dazzled and glimmered and made the water sparkle with magic. The muffled sound of voices coming from people fishing at the opposite side of the river came in an incomprehensible hush; distorted and unnatural, and I had the oddest of feeling that it must had been the sturgeons talking among themselves as they splashed with a heavy thud and raised their brown head atop the star-illuminated water.

The soft light that minutes before permeated the gypsy boudoir grew dim and the room turned dark and the voices coming from outside quieted down.

They had their supper, fished some more, walked around the camp to see what others were up to and then called it a day...  and now the gypsy girl must stop here; otherwise she would keep writing until all lights are out and her computer run out of batteries. Tomorrow will be another day. Another sun another thought another moment to be lived and let live… another day to reminiscent about, and enjoy it and to be happy with what you have and what it has been gifted to you...

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Early morning came with the songs of birds—so many! It was chilly all throughout the night and I felt cold even in my dreams. The Fisherman was in charge of breakfast, while the gypsy girl remained in the coziness of their gypsy caravan with her books and a cup of coffee, waiting for the sun to warm up the earth. 

Slowly, but surely, people started coming out of their campers, tents and trailers and as the sun rose up, the river banks got crowded; expectancy warming up every heart. This is truly a serious fishing place; a fisherman’s paradise if you may… people come here to fish all day and night long… 

Late last evening someone on the other side of the camp got a mammoth of a sturgeon; a black massive head shaped like that of a dolphin and for some strange reason everyone here seems to be in a happy mood, we mingle and talk to each other and ask questions about each other’s little fishing triumphs.

Right beside our gypsy trailer, five women in an interesting diversity of ages are camping next to us. They came in a huge trailer yesterday afternoon all by themselves, and I enjoy hearing them talk and laugh with no apparent need whatsoever for their man. Deep inside me, I kind of envy them; their objectivity and detachment of what to me, it is simply sacred is admirable… would I ever attain such liberty of the soul, I have to wonder.

I’m so attached to this man I called the “Fisherman” that I can’t even begin to imagine myself being wholly happy apart from him. They are loud and quite the rambunctious lot these women are, and they make me feel contented just by looking at them enjoying their lives in such freedom. This very moment they are all sitting outside, passing among themselves some type of a sparkling red juice in a crystal jar—a magical potion I’m sure it must be, because they are overexcited, talking way too loudly and laughing way too much. I have to wonder, though, if this is genuine happiness.

This afternoon we saw a man fishing with a bow and arrow. I had never seen anything like that, and felt such excitement watching him getting one of those humongous carps which are constantly jumping up to the surface, that his dad, an especially nice gentleman standing by me, asked him if he could pose for me…

 
This man later told me that these fishes smell so bad and are so disgusting that nobody wants to eat them, so once caught, they are left on the rocks or by the edge of the river. And did you see the wild cats last night? He then said out of the blue. What? Cats! Where, here? I couldn’t believe it! And why hadn’t I seen them?

He told me that they would usually come out late in the evening to feed from the carcasses of fishes left behind. They are many, and they live among the rocks… oh I don’t think I could sleep at all tonight if I don’t happen to see these cats before we go to bed! Please pretty please Lord, would you not bring them kitties to me tonight!

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10:02 pm—what a peculiar sort those women camping alongside our gypsy trailer are; how can anyone be so remarkably overexcited at all time of day? And raucous too, I should say… still talking and laughing so loud at this hour, that even inside their trailer you can hear them alborotando the night away…

We’re taking things down early tomorrow morning, it is Mother’s Day and we’re planning on spending the afternoon with the girls. Not a single day of my life would go by without me thinking of mom. Something always would remind me of her; no night will go by that I won’t see her in my dreams. I am always frantically looking for her in my dreams. She’s lost and I cannot find her, then I wake up to the perplexing realization that it wasn’t just a bad dream. I’ve truly lost her, it is definitively, and I will never find her again. The only difference from my dreams is, I know exactly where to find her. I so immeasurably miss her.

Ps: I did see the cats that night! Three dark figures against the dimmed sky; eyes glowing in the night like magical fireflies.

In the garden

April 29—cold and windy.  “¿Hasta cuándo esperaremos por la recompesa del dulce sol?”.  And how long will we wait for the sweet reward of the sun?  Are we ever going to see “nuestro pequeño mundo envuelto en calor?”—our land wrapped in warmth?  

As it was, I couldn’t wait any longer to plant my David Austin roses—the ones we had brought home on Friday.  So, I went out and planted them… my Boscobel and Abraham Darby.  The garden has evolved into a real dream these days.  I stand in it with my arms raised to the sky and I get this feeling of being content as if something, or someone bigger than me is drawing and making things out of nothing. Everything is made out of magic, and my heart sees what is invisible to the eye.     

April 30—I have scattered the zinnia seeds today; mainly in the rose garden in the rotunda, and around mom’s little garden—zinnias for summer flowers when the ephemeral glories of spring are long gone...

It was another day of high winds and chilly weather, but I am blessed and thankful for being able to work the soil, and still enjoy life outside.

 

May 3—today, I planted two Double Knockout roses—red petalled roses for a rubicund glint and a trickle of flushed glory among all greens and pinks.  I decided to plant one of these roses under the Quaking Aspen, on the west side of the garden, and the other is now replacing the bare-root Sundowner Grandiflora that I had planted last spring by the big fountain in the center of the garden.  

Nothing looks more pitiful than a newly planted bare-root rose standing like a skeleton in the garden, its thin, naked stems clacking together in the wind. But then winter passed and spring had its way with the world again.  Days grew longer and temperatures rose, summer came and went… yet, this rose never switched back into beauty mode.  I wouldn’t have it any other way, which simply means I took it out and put in its place that other red Double Knockout.  For plenty of blooms and incredible successions... 

 

I didn’t want to put that Sundowner Grandiflora in the trash yet, thought, and so I decided to give it another try and went onto replanting it in mom’s little garden.  We’ll see what little miracle would come out from this decision… only time will tell.

 

I have learned that when a plant or a shrub isn’t doing good in the garden, one must remove it as soon as you can; particularly when this relates to roses.  Life is too short, and the garden life so ephemeral that I refuse to continue on nursing the bad and the ugly.  I love this poem:

“A poor old Widow in her weeds
Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds;
Not too shallow, and not too deep,
And down came April -- drip -- drip -- drip.
Up shone May, like gold, and soon
Green as an arbour grew leafy June.
And now all summer she sits and sews
Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows,
Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet,
Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit;
Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells;
Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells;
Like Oberon's meadows her garden is
Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees.
Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs,
And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes;
And all she has is all she needs --
A poor Old Widow in her weeds.” 
― Walter de la Mare, Peacock Pie