A BRAWL IN THE GARDEN BETWEEN THE MONTAGUES AND CAPULETS -- EXCEPT THIS IS NO ROMEO

The garden, however beautiful to me in the early morning hours, is filled with imperfections and territorial positioning.  Take, for instance, that Siberian Elm tree, an unwelcome visitor who has taken up residence in the corner Spirea.  He must have clandestinely wind-pollinated himself during the Time of Great Neglect when I was preoccupied in Genny's battle with cancer, because I didn't notice his presence until this Spring.  He's entrenched now -- and the lovely Spirea is smitten with him, having enfolded into her cascading branches his slender but sturdy trunk.  She permits this Elm's huge ego to manifest itself in that corner of their shared life, where his serrated Lancelot-like leaves prominently crowd out her white flowery beauty.  I detest him, for he's no Romeo.  In fact, he's a trash tree but I'm not sure how to rid her of him.  I won't trick him into taking the poisonous potion since doing so goes against all of my organic values.  Besides, I might then inadvertently harm her.  They are so enmeshed with one another now that if I try to uproot him, she will surely follow.  I'm far too fond of this Spirea to cause her demise -- she was one of the first we planted in our new home eight years ago and she's now taken on the beauty of a princess who has come of age.  I suppose as I prune and chop away at his inflated ego, cutting out those overcrowding branches and spear-like leaves while hacking away at his trunk, I must somehow tolerate that a portion of him will stubbornly remain intact.  Buddha calls me to acceptance.  As unlikely and unattractive pairing as they are, they have become one now.  But I won't let him have a harem.  That Siberian Elm has already tried moving into the sister Spirea.  The Caretaker is back and any further saplings are going to be quickly plucked.

A nod to the western wall, however, brings me back to those little perfections offered by the garden that make my role as caretaker so worthwhile, for today, at last, my favorite child has emerged -- the Clematis has bloomed.  Yeah!  Why do I every year anxiously await the first blooming of this vine?  The only thing I can write is that when the Clematis comes alive, it is as if I am miraculously transported from this dry prairie land of the western plains into an English garden.  I am in awe of the singular beauty in the flowering of this vine, with its long slender tendrils that caress their way up a wrought iron trellis.  With the Clematis, my Pueblo-style stucco house becomes a country cottage, and suddenly I am compelled to host a cream tea on the patio.  But instead, you're more likely to find me sipping a well-balanced Merlot as I witness a spectacular setting sun slide down the mountain range, casting burnt orange rays against the green Clematis vines bursting in purple.  That you won't see in England.  We need to appreciate where we are planted, even if our western gardens can only minimally mimic the wild-natured beauty of an English garden.

Tomorrow -- off to another's garden in pursuit of a memory plant for a dearly loved young woman, taken far too soon by that terrible Leukemia monster.  See you at two o'clock Shelley.

SOMETHING FISHY IS GOING ON IN THE GARDEN -- AND IT INVOLVES TONDU!

The wedding is complete, Genny and Josh are on their honeymoon and I am back in the garden (yeah!).  I also took over Tondu duty yesterday from Janine, who had done her fair share of puppy sitting the past week.  Tondu loves being outside, so she actually is a good gardening partner, but she is . . . well, a Daschund.  And anyone who knows anything about Daschunds knows these little creatures are troublemakers.  Tondu is no exception.

So off into the garden Tondu and I went last night, she investigating every leaf and clump of dirt, while I got busy fertilizing the herbs with an organic fish emulsion because it is oh so healthy for those newly developing stems and leaves.  Plus, because the emulsion is glob that gets dissolved into water, the roots absorb it pretty quickly.  Unbeknownst to me, however, Tondu had been drinking the runoff of the fertilizer as I was busy deadheading– and to boot, had eaten some mint leaves whose lower stems were also freshly soaking in the liquid fish emulsion. By the time I discovered Tondu’s mischief it was too late.  Of course, it was even later, while in the house, that Tondu threw up (on the carpet, of course, where else?).  Yucky brown murk mixed with herbs and smelling to high heaven. I cleaned up after her and by the time Tondu and I were headed to bed, we both smelled as though we had been cutting fish bait all day.  To spare Mike, we slept downstairs last night.

Besides Tondu’s antics yesterday, it’s been a busy week in the garden, cutting dead branches out of the Russian sage, retraining ivy to grow up the side of the house, clipping wild grass along the garden borders, pulling out plants that died and replanting new starters.  There is still so much more to do, but the caretaking is paying off and the garden is finally coming along.  It doesn’t look so neglected anymore.

While I work in the garden, I usually have my camera with me.  You just never know what you are going to see.  A small black and red bird barely noticeable in a wetland field, clematis buds ready to pop open their purple glory, miniature carnations stretching heads upward.  Little moments and slices of life that cannot be captured at a later time.  The perfect picture is there if I see it and if I can grab my camera in time.  And if my zoom is powerful enough.  Wishing for a new zoom lens for Christmas now.

Now that I’m unemployed and moving at a more leisurely pace, I take coffee in the garden each morning.  Even this morning, with the smoke from close by forest fires drifting through the air.  I’m finding a new me in this time spent with nature.  A me that exists independently from the labels and busyness of a nearly forty year career, a me that is no longer required as full time caregiver to a dearly loved daughter, a me that stands outside human disease and cancer.  There’s something both spectacular and simple in witnessing the awakening of flowers in the crisp, cool light of a new day.  They stand tall and strong, these plants, refreshed from dew and not yet worn out by the blaring heat of long Colorado afternoons.  The garden needs nothing from me in early morning hours, and instead, simply offers the glory of its natural beauty.  Here in the morning garden, surrounded by creation and new life, I think of possibilities and new ways of being.  I think of how short the growing season of summer is in Colorado.  How important it is to breathe.  To smell.  To see.  The time has arrived in my life to sit quietly, in wonderment.

THERE'S A SLIGHT BUZZ IN THE GARDEN TODAY.

Well, Colorado went from 50 degree to 90 degree weather in less than a week.  I love living here!

Because it’s been a long hot day, I went to my front yard tonight to check on the little Penstemon I planted a week ago.  She’s been struggling a bit, needing some extra love and care, and as I tipped the watering can over her bent neck to cool her down from the heat, a flash of yellow buzzed by my face.  And suddenly, I knew summer had finally arrived in my mountain state.  The bees are back.  Well, really, only one or two have been sighted so far, but within another week, a bee habitat will be well established in my front garden.  Even during what I now refer to as The Time of Great Neglect, the purple salvias thrived and I have to believe it is partly due to the bees that have always visited my garden.   I don’t use pesticides and am committed to organic gardening, and as a result, the bees have a safe haven here – they’ll be with me until the first frost, feasting on the nectar from these deep purple plants.  Like snakes, I don’t fear the bees.  During the summer season, I stick my hand right in the middle of the salvia’s and prune away.  The bees leave me alone.  We know we need each other.

For some reason, bees are quite attracted to vibrant colors and purple seems to be a favorite, so I know they will soon find their way to the back yard, where the chives are now in full bloom.  For the most part, I leave those blooms alone – they provide a nice little feast to my buzzing friends who then help to pollinate the rest of the herb garden.  But I’ll pick a few of the chive blooms this week and toss them into a salad.  Yummy onion taste.

Lest I forget, the bees will soon be drinking chamomile, which also just bloomed this week.  Will I make chamomile tea this year for myself?  Doing so requires pruning the fresh flowers and then drying them out.  That will deprive my little oval black and white stripped friends of this wonderfully sweet nectar.  And yet, I remember the chamomile tea Mike and I drank at the Stratford Inn in England and I think – sorry bees, this flower is for me!

Well, one thing the bees don’t bother with are the strawberries. For one thing, bees can’t see red.  But Robins sure can find their way to the juicy ripe berries.  Seems the garden is starting to burst open, because the strawberries have bloomed and the first small white fruit is bearing forth.  It will be a race this year to see who will get the first harvest – the birds or me. 

So another week in the garden ends, with me sitting on the patio, drinking my glass of red, and snapping away pictures of new life.  What blooms next week?  I can hardly stand the wait.