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Tag Archives: garden


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zinnia-time. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

and – just when it was beautiful enough – nature raised the bar. and the zinnia produced a round of tiny yellow flowers – a crown atop the center of the already-stunning flower. beauty squared.

it’s like adding a weep-worthy soaring cello line or a mournful french horn to a solo piano piece of music. beautiful enough, raised up.

i’ve been going through old bins in the basement, boxes in the attic. i’ve found old photos and old journals i had forgotten about: pictures of early life in new york, early life in florida. they catapult me way back in time, back to hanging out on the beach, roadtripping with my cherished friend sue, early days of choir-directing, youth groups i led. i took pictures of nearly everything, so it’s the absence of pictures of people or places or events that is noteworthy.

life isn’t always a zinnia.

and sometimes, it’s the long story that makes the short stories more bearable. we survive periods in our lives that seem unsolvable, painful, unending. years later we open the bins and see evidence of our enduring, our fortitude, even our clinging to flotsam and jetsam.

so it must be during the time in-between that we grow a second row of tiny flowers inside, ready and waiting for us, whenever we are ready for them, for those times we couldn’t see the beauty.

the weather this past weekend was stunning. with an invitation to autumn, this september saturday and sunday were blissfully sunny and cooler. a good time to sit on the back patio. a good time to marvel at the plumes on the grasses, to watch the cherry tomatoes ripen. and a good time to work in the dirt, to tend to the herbs, to take a hike, to brush the dogga, to witness the dance of the hummingbirds. in the middle of several ongoing projects – really important things that need our attention – we took the good time.

zinnia-time.

*****

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the wise garden. co-existing. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

and all the plants live together happily ever after.

it’s a beautiful place to just wander. the walkways through bushes you may have to duck under are not edged or over-weeded. it’s not perfect, yet, in its imperfection, it is perfect.

most of all, the natives and the regional perennials co-exist, nurturing each other simply by existing.

i suppose it might be wise for us to take a few cues from these plants. somehow, they are growing and thriving – side by side – without thwarting the growth and thriving of another. somehow, they are weathering the seasons without resistance, falling into fallow and rising out of the dirt. somehow, they are just being, without overly exuberant displays toward each other, without angsty concern, without aggression. somehow, they are blooming and verdant and glorious, trusting – implicitly – that the next plant will understand, that the next plant will also weave its way in the midst, working together to find the light-space they each need. somehow, they are symbiotic, bringing their best, setting aside differences, instinctively empathic. somehow, they are aware of the precious time they have in the sun.

and the garden is vibrant. beautiful. healthy.

and the garden is wise.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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growth spurt. [d.r. thursday]

breck is having a growth spurt. like when your toddler suddenly grows inches and miles and you cast aside the tiny outfits, reaching for the next sizes up.

you don’t really know what to expect about how a child will look when a baby is born. every day – in the middle of the chaos that is parenthood – you look at this precious child, pretty much incredulous. there are days when nothing about their tiny face and body looks much different. there are days when you have an inkling of what this little person will look like as they grow. there are days you stare and wonder whose child you are holding.

breck is kind of like that. for years since we brought breck home from – yes, breckenridge, colorado – it has looked like a small quaking aspen sapling. potted and then in the ground in numerous places in the backyard, its leaves were small, easily-identifiable aspen leaves, the classic well-loved shape of mountain breezes and stands of shimmering, rustling.

and then, this summer.

breck is now – apparently – an awkward teenager. the new leaves are giant, the new growth resembles the beanstalk that jack planted. it is as high as the lowest point of the garage roof and each day there are new leaves up there, new inches. we are not quite sure what is happening out there. but it sure looks like breck is having the time of its life.

breck’s vigorous growth this very summer seems really hopeful to us. in these past five summers we have watched breck maintain, keep status quo, a little teeny growth here or there. we’ve been grateful it has sustained. we feel inordinately connected to this little tree that made its way home from the high mountains with us in littlebabyscion.

we wonder about its sudden enthusiasm. we wonder about its new and different leaves. it feels like it is somehow bursting out of slow-and-steady into what-the-heck-full-steam-ahead.

we’re hoping it’s contagious.

*****

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french lavender. [d.r. thursday]

with the string you tie around boxes of cakes and pastries from a bakery or sweet patisserie, small bundles of dried lavender hang around my studio. from the big old black window frame that sits on the chifferobe i use for supplies to over by the djembe in front of the turned-off radiator by the window. bundles of lavender.

i used to have a lavender garden out back, started with cuttings divided out from the same bed these bundles were from. then the snow-on-the-mountain snuck under the fence from my neighbor’s yard and, despite my best efforts, took over the lavender (and anything else in its path). snow-on-the-mountain is like that. it barrels down anything in its way and takes much effort to eradicate. it’s aggressive and a tad bit bullying, not unlike some people i have known. i didn’t invite it into my yard, but there it was, anyway. i’ve tried to – now – incorporate it while still somewhat controlling it – the new normal. sounds a lot like the stuff of life.

each year we plant a big pot of lavender. each year, it is a slightly different strain of lavender. last year, our daughter chose the plant, as she was here at the time and we visited a nursery. it exploded into a gigantic plant – the bees seemed to love it as much as we did. this year, we chose one that seemed unique, it’s purple petals growing out the top of the stalk – french lavender, with butterfly-like narrow petals.

lavender is known for bringing serenity, for its calming soft scent. for me, it’s a balance plant. it is – without any real effort – growing in its giant pot.

i walk over and, with the slightest of touches, am caught in a whirl of its beautiful aroma. i think about tying some branches and hanging them to dry at the end of the summer season. or maybe making small lavender sachets. anything to keep it going.

i can add some to the gifted lavender in my studio. bring serenity in. and push out the ghosts of invasive snow-on-the-mountain.

*****

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the back garden. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

bunbun et al seem to love the new hosta. we added them to the back garden – along the new fence – last summer. and then bunbun’s momma added her family to the backyard.

it’s not that we don’t love hardy purple-flowered hosta. they are the hosta of my youth, the stalwart souls of shady gardens everywhere. they come back, despite pretty much anything.

but those white-flowered hosta – big solid-colored blue-green leaves – and the waterfall of white flowers bent under the weight of their blooms. i’d see them in nestled in mulch on our walks. i’d see them in peaceful garden center strolls. ahh, i was in hosta-desire.

most of our yard – prior to last summer – has come from others. plantings, cuttings, full transplants from people dear to us. so it has been less about landscape-planning and more about gratefully accepting gestures of friendship and generosity.

and then, when it was time for a fence, it became about planning.

our fern garden is tucked into the back left, over by the garage, under a canopy of many big old trees. we dug up and transplanted all the hosta from along the back fenceline to over by barney – kind of a vintage garden, old-fashioned flowers tucked in next to each other, next to our almost-100-year-old piano. it’s where our sweet peonies are and all the daylilies.

along the back fence, though, we now have various-sized ornamental grasses. switchgrass and zebra grass, blue sedge and a big piece of driftwood that tiny birds seem to love. they perch and linger, eyes on the birdfeeder, waiting their turn for the birdbath. we added three of the darker-leafed hosta. these are the ones bunbun loves. tiny bites of leaf – evidence of bunny snacktime.

each day – with the coolest watering wand and hose gifted to me by my niece – i wander slowly around the backyard, taking note of new growth in each of our plants – the gifted ones, the carefully-researched, chosen ones. it’s simplicity at its best – a slow walk nurturing all the living things back there. we fill the birdfeeders, knowing the chippies and the squirrels love them too. we clean and refill the hummingbird feeder and late dusk watch the hummer fly in to do its feeding circuit. we scrub out the birdbath daily, refilling it – just as the woman walking through the parking lot told us to do when she enthused about our purchase on the rolling flatcart and i asked her about things we should know.

it’s a slower summer. because of circumstances, we don’t know if we will be able to travel much. but that makes dogdog happy. and, in my imagination, i can hear the house wrens and the cardinals and the robins and chickadees and sparrows clapping. and bunbun’s ears perk up too.

*****

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old friends in the garden. [k.s. friday]

back home-home, my sweet momma had planted bleeding hearts on the east side of our house. there were four-o-clocks there as well; old-fashioned flowers in her garden. we didn’t have any fancy plants – it was otherwise hosta and day lilies, rose of sharon and hydrangea, azalea and forsythia. but, in thinking back, i love her sensibility of these old-timey plants, steadfast through the ages, and anytime i see or plant any of them, i think of my momma.

our trail takes us through the woods. the honeysuckle lines the dirt path and its sweet aroma wafts around us. there’s pink and white, both. and, as i glance over, there is something that makes me think of my momma’s bleeding hearts. we’d plant them in our backyard but for the fact that they are toxic and we don’t want to take any chances with dogdog. so simply being reminded of them will have to suffice.

maybe today we’ll go and get a few flowers at the nursery. we need some to put in a planter on the old chair out back and in the retired firepit vessel. i suppose it’s time – already! – to pick up our basil plant and the cherry tomatoes we love to have on our potting stand. we are heading into summer soon and caprese salads and skewers are beckoning.

honeysuckle is a symbol of pure happiness. i’m pretty sure that four-o-clocks and hosta and day lilies and rose of sharon and hydrangea and azalea and forsythia are as well, though i haven’t looked them up and i’m guessing there’s more meaning for each.

for me, they are walking in my growing-up yard. for me, they are my momma, bent over the garden, deadheading the four-o-clock blossoms and loosening the leathery seeds. for me, they are the light purple buds of the hosta heated by the sun – the ones planted by the garage just off the one-car driveway – just begging for tiny hands to pop them at the end of the afternoon when they were filled with air. for me, they are the giant flowers of my sister’s name (though spelled differently, she would quickly add). for me, they are sitting up in the maple tree with my notebook, writing, gazing down at the garden on the shady side of the house. for me, they are big bunches of dried hydrangeas in the fall. for me, they are delicate hearts lined up on a stem, for i was always fascinated by these. for me, they are so much more than old-fashioned flowers.

for me, they are comfort. for me, they are like old friends.

*****

OLD FRIENDS REVISITED ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood

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bees and toddlers. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

the dandy dandelions are baaaaack and we are celebrating them! i cannot help but smile looking at dandelions. i have a rich history with them. i suppose many moms do.

so, for many reasons – the bees included – we won’t be quiiiite as obsessive about ridding our lawn of them. not to mention, they are stubborn and will likely return despite any attempts to mitigate them. i have found taproots of great length underground – dandelions aspiring to be large carrots, channeling the subterranean tenacity of root vegetables.

but – in the end – even with this year’s gargantuan effort to have nice grass and earn the respect of the GrassKing, we need our pollinators and we need flowers for tiny toddlers to pick. so, we will dial it back a little bit on total eradication and live in the memories of fists full of dandelions.

*****

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS ©️ 1999 kerri sherwood

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the GrassKing. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

drumroll, please.

yes, yes. he is convinced.

this is david’s year. the year that his grass (aka our grass) might – just might – even a tad – a smidge – a skosh – a teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini-bit – look like dan’s.

dan is The GrassKing. his lawn is manicured and beautiful. it feels lovely beneath your feet and, crosshatch-cut, looks lovely as well. tidy and healthy and green – all the things all those brochures tout – the ones that arrive in our mailbox, tucked into our front door, rubberbanded onto the doorknob of the screen, stuffed under the welcome mat. there are many-many-many companies out there that believe we need their help.

we don’t need their help.

we just need dan.

and so, we wait for instructions. he swings by to examine our poor front yard, post-demolition by the company that eradicated the lead water pipes and everything else in its excavation. he texts, “looks pretty good.” we breathe a sigh. luckily, he also texts, “call me.” he is our grass-hero and we love him for it.

you might think that you know all the special devices and products for lawncare. all kinds of spreaders and seeders and sprinklers and milorganite mixes and shade/sun helpers and weed and feed and lawnmowers and edgers. goodness!

the one thing you might not be aware of? the meat thermometer.

the soil must be exactly right for overseeding. and the only way to know is to set those grilling steaks aside.

yup, dan. the meat thermometer is on stand-by.

*****

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surely panting. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

and today – despite the dirt and the dried stems, vestiges of life-gone-past – despite the cold and the snow and the ice and the rain and all the elements that have torn into this plant and the critters that have refuged under its branches – despite the sun and the drought and no added nutrients and almost no attention whatsoever – small clusters of brassica-like buds have sprouted out of the ground.

they have persevered, they have sought rebirth, they have wiped away their tears of disappearance and their underground fallow and they have risen up, one tiny millimeter at a time, unnoticed until now, shoots of green in all the brown.

they have not been considered marvelous. they are not rare. they are not exquisite blooms, fragile petals, filmy tendrils connecting them to their lifesource. instead, they are curled cabbages, tightly wound and unwinding.

they are a little bit haughty at the spring and its sweet-time-taking. they are persistent, resilience at their core, hardy, paying no mind to the rules of march or april or, really, any season. they wait for no one to move the leaves and debris of winter. they are independent.

this new year of growth, this new season of their sedum-lives is pushing out of the good earth – despite all odds. they keep on keeping on, mustering up next and next, pushing aside all doubt, surely panting in their phoenix.

*****

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the splurge. [two artists tuesday]

it would appear that a giant angel was hula-hooping in the clouds and dropped their hula hoop, which landed in the upper branches of a tree at the botanic garden. or, perhaps, that a spaceship -with no defined interior- had dropped down for a visit. or, maybe, there was a filming of sesame street’s “the letter ‘o'” about to do another take. brightly lit hula hoops of neon light suspended in trees, they cast an eerie glow onto the frozen ground, onto the path. michael bublé sang “walking in a winter wonderland” and we found ourselves inside the magic.

there is definitely something to wandering paths amongst many other people all oohing and ahhing. i had vowed to myself to leave my camera in my purse, but it wasn’t minutes before i failed at this. there were just so many colors and textures to remember, so dreamy. vast installations of creative lighting.

we had hoped to go. the ticket cost was a little prohibitive but we decided – when we woke and new year’s day was to be a little more mild than it had been – to splurge.

we were stunned even at the entrance to the garden, the trees wrapped in lights, every single branch and twig gleaming. we moseyed along the path, pulling over to let groups of people by so that we could be somewhat alone as we strolled.

but this wasn’t a silent and solitary hike in the woods. it was a performance piece we all took in together. each person’s glee added to ours and, dropping all expectations and all analysis of how-do-they-do-that, we were caught up in the captivating displays.

we already have a plan for next year. there are snacks and beverages and fire pits, places to linger, places to immerse. i could stand and watch the water and light “all i want for christmas” over and over and over. i allowed myself to wonder what a garden would look like lit to a piece of my own music.

we talked about our favorite displays driving the backroads. though spaceship fantasies are not my thing, hula hoops definitely are in my wheelhouse and the hulahooplights made my list. by the time we got home we realized that we had listed all of the displays we had seen, each design extraordinary, a celebration of the marriage of color and light and and sound and garden.

our late-night snack had a different air. the gift of being outside in the cold. the gift of beauty. the gift we had given ourselves – permission to splurge a little. a new year and its new intentions.

*****

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