Lisa Papp's Garden Diary with Anthea & Marigold

January 2012

2012-02-01T11:43:00.008-05:00

My dear snowdrops come with a history. They were gifted to me from a dear friend who lived her young life in the scilla covered slopes of England.

A life of fairies and beautiful legends.

A place where make believe and reality were content to sit side by side without all the traditional arguing you sometimes see in modern times.

No, these snowdrops are the real thing . . .

Kissed by legend,

Bound by the ancient oath,

Filled with lullabies, nurturing stories of a better time

deep, deep within their roots.

August 2010

2010-09-17T12:57:00.005-04:00

God Bless the brave caterpillar.

Munching luxuriantly on milkweed,

Hollowing away in their emerald chambers,

beset with golden locks.

Glimmer, at last, turns to darkness

and in that hush, I wonder,

is there sleep?

Is she content to let go, to simply

close her eyes?

Perhaps she’s done this before.

Perhaps she relies on ancient stories that tell her she will emerge,

fuller, lighter, freer. Does she know the story?

Either way, she goes.

God bless the brave caterpillar.

Deep, deep, away. Into the dark.

A brave caterpillar she is.

And when all that she has known

is let go,

a pin prick of light.

Simple, Sweet, Full. Here I Am!

“I didn’t see you.”

I was here.

Within that quiet journey, the fragrance of milkweed far away,

an urging,

a calling with different ears,

a nudging of new wings. The stretch!

Emerald armour fades, locks unfasten,

and Alas, I can fly!

God bless the brave caterpillar.

Anthea and Marigold greet each and every new butterfly in the meadow. Here, the black swallowtail visits one of Anthea’s zinnias while the Great Spangled Fritilary tests his wings. An Eastern Tiger Swallowtail rests upon her hat and of course, she is old friends with the yellow sulphur who sits merrily on her shoulder.

May 2010

2010-05-27T17:21:00.002-04:00

"Carry the song of a thousand loves on a single petal," said the Angel to the Wild Rose.

And to the Honeysuckle, she begged, "Gather the Bees and bless them."

It was May when she spoke to the Autumn Olive, "Set your fragrance upon the wind . . . Ready the meadow with mirth!"

I don't know of the other conversations, but I can assure you, the Autumn Olive said yes!

Blessed be the Meadow.

April 2010

2010-04-22T18:35:00.004-04:00

Happy Earth Day!!

Anthea and Marigold celebrate by singing a spring rain song with their friend Starling. The European Starling still wears his beautiful spotted winter coat.

Springtime falls on waiting stem

It falls on grasses new,

Anemone, Lenten Rose,

Dainty Scilla blue -

Misty morning buttercup

Cowslips full of dew,

Over, under, all around,

Springtime falls for you!

February 2010

2010-03-09T11:11:00.006-05:00

Snowgeese sail overhead, their voices different than Candada Geese, but equally pleasant. Equally enthusiastic. Equally Majestic.

I can't help but run alongside. I wish I could journey with them, see what they see, feel what they feel. Know what they know.

Snow comes, and snow goes, like the two sides of a bridge. On one, the current flows towards you - inhale. On the other, away - exhale. Like all good blessings, it's the coming and going that makes them doubly sweet.

Mother Nature does not hoard her snow, off it goes to nourish rivers and streams. Likewise with us. A smile, or a compliment nourishes those downstream.

Inhale - receive.
Exhale - release.

Turn around and watch. The water's still coming - don't worry about that. It loves the flow.

January 2010

2010-01-30T15:25:00.003-05:00

Have you ever held a kitty so close
and then had to let go?

Yet,

Does a Tree wish her leaves
back in her arms?

Or a Breeze take back her breath?

No, I think they chance it.

Maybe leaves get heavy, or air stale.

Or maybe they have a job to do . . .

Leaves crinkle and color the ground,

Breezes sway and lift birds in the air,

Raindrops cleanse, Snowflakes sparkle,

A smile soothes,

A word heals,

A thought carries - like the sound of a bird
Waiting to be picked up.

The January landscape is barren, but not empty. Everywhere there is promise, promise, promise. That letting go is the answer to receiving. The sleeping groundhog who laid his head down in Autumn is promised a warm spring, the buds that decorate the limbs of trees are the promise of leaves gone by, of leaves let go. The birds sing, (can you imagine if they didn’t!), they sing for all they’re worth and so, Spring comes.

New Year's Eve 2009

2009-12-31T23:20:00.004-05:00

Quiet stars rest in the meadow
As if a piece of heaven has come
down to rest among the sleeping roots
and trees and flowers
Maybe humming
Maybe listening
but surely trusting
in the well-being of
Winter's quiet breath.

There is nothing so fun as being engulfed in a winter's twilight. Among quiet, but stirring trees; among hidden, but breathing flowers; among starlight, surely calling you home.

December 2009

2009-12-30T10:02:00.002-05:00

November 2009

2009-12-01T16:47:00.009-05:00

Crisp leaves scurry across the ground, breaking free from the morning frost. Bare branches sway like cathedrals against a darkening sun. A late chirp of sparrows interrupts November’s quiet dusk.

It’s the time for Thanksgiving.
And how grateful I am for the woods; this one, the one I had as a child, the ones I will have when I’m old. I think - though thousands of miles apart- they are the same. I think tree energy surpasses lines on a map. I think the hum echoes, travels, shares, waits open-armed. And I suppose if I was to sit against a tree, might I feel you against yours?

Oh for the grace of trees.

Anthea and Marigold listen to November’s heartsong . . . colorful as cranberries, sincere as the frosted leaf, thick with promise, and endless as one’s imagination.

September 2009

2009-09-24T13:09:00.005-04:00

If Autumn were a lady, she would smile golden pearls

And Scarlet birch would dress her cheeks

If Autumn were a lady,

She might whisper breezes

Through crackled leaves

She might hold your hand and sing furrows into the leaves

on the meadow path

And in the tops of trees, deliver

Lullabies of floating leaves; September's birthsong

If Autumn were a lady

She might dangle threads of flame

Across the water

I would smell sweet woodsy spice in her footfalls

I would run to catch up with her

And watch her let go of things

Laughing

Delighting in the look of it

The feel of it

The freedom (oh the promise of letting go)

If Autumn were a lady, her middle name would be faith.

July 2009

2009-07-31T21:35:00.007-04:00

Abundance….heirloom tomatoes on the vine, blackberries glistening, raspberries melting in your mouth. It’s the meadow again. Filled with bluebirds in the nest, new wrens on wing, yarrow flashing brilliant white and everywhere you turn, abundance.

Hummingbird moths gather round the butterfly bush which itself, smells like watermelon jolly ranchers. A family of groundhogs take in clover like mini scoops of ice cream while young bunnies hop around even younger bush beans. Everywhere, abundance.

Two homes ago, I found a marsh. It was hidden from the road by giant pines and tall grasses, but I found it. I always do, call it luck, or necessity maybe, but I am drawn to the wild and free places; the pockets among the fervor. This marsh held herons, frogs, ducks, a muskrat, and the friendliest array of colorful birds from goldfinches to catbirds to red-winged black birds.

In summer, the lilypads took over, though not completely. I had never understood them before, but they grow from the pond bottom up, so if you were to tug on one, it wouldn’t come, unless you tugged really hard. Baby ducklings swam through them and one morning, a thousand little jewels stood on top. It wasn’t until I returned in the afternoon that I got the whole picture. Water lilies, like floating chalices, bloomed across the pond, soaking in the sun, laughing almost. So quiet was this place, so removed, I had all this joy to myself. Abundance.

Here’s a little picture for you, the dragonflies took turns so they wouldn’t tire out or get bored.

April 2009

2009-04-29T20:18:00.008-04:00

Every time I say I’m going to skip my garden diary, when the month nears end, it pokes and prods at me – what? Nothing to say, have you looked outside lately?

April brings.
Birds and buds
Green grass
Blossoms on the trees
Swallows

Whatever would we do without April?
Without the bringing?

April lets go . . .
The snowbirds
The winter flakes
The icy grip

Whatever would we do -
without the letting go?

Breathe in. Release.
Give. Receive.
Such is the movement of April
The poetry of Life

Anthea and Marigold spend their April days listening to the moon, singing songs of goodbye, and welcoming the new.

2009-03-30T09:43:00.007-04:00

This month I am thinking of very small things. Things like tips of crocus poking out of the ground. Things like the first tufts of yellow brimming on the goldfinch. Things like zinnia seeds hatching in my basement.

Each begins with the smallest of steps . . .

Planting a small nub in the ground last November. Setting what looks like a flake of paper into a disc of dirt.

Each begins with the smallest of steps . . .

First a tiny disturbance in the soil, then a lifting, a stretching, and at last, two green leaves. I don’t ask the papery seed to be a field of zinnias. I only ask it to try the ground, get comfortable, to listen to its calling. And lo, the seed begins to answer.

And so it is with us, one tiny but necessary, simple but poignant, doable yet powerful, step at a time we unfold. Like Spring herself, each one a blessing, a tiny triumph, a messenger of the next step.

I don’t know what beckons the first wisps of yellow on the goldfinch. Perhaps there are lyrics on the Spring wind, urging one to greatness. Or faint conversations with the sun that last longer and longer . . . drawing out color, tempting boldness, encouraging the fervor of rebirth.

Shhh, don’t rush.

Whisper. Because in the smallest of things, are the greatest of things. And maybe the smallest step is willingness. The willingness to lie in the dirt. To listen. To say, okay, I can do that, what next . . . forgiveness? . . . letting yourself be forgiven? Maybe it’s planting a different seed? . . . being kind to yourself? . . or more patient? or maybe it’s planting another huge flat of zinnias for the hummingbirds!

Each begins with the smallest of steps . . .

Happy Planting!

Anthea & Marigold are busy planting zinnia seeds; each is given a name, a purpose, and loads of encouragement. Mari knows the zinnia song by heart…

Each and every seed,
Carries his own dream

The earth, the sun, the rain,
Know them all by name,

Every magic star
Watches from afar…
Seeing neither flaw nor shame,

The Love I see for thee
Is also given me.
Oh, the Love I see in thee,
I also see in me. (repeat)

February 2009

2009-02-24T17:52:00.005-05:00

So much is happening yet you can’t see a thing. I did notice three narrow sprigs of green coming up in my Super Spectacular Spring Extravaganza planting. That’s what I named it; I tend to be optimistic.

It’s the time of year I get anxious to see more. In my old home I knew where everything slept beneath the ground. Here, everything’s new. I am still learning trees and wild flowers and doing my best to remember where I planted bulbs. Truly, I need not even care. Spring will show me soon enough. When the sun is right, when the breeze holds the right messages, when the ground is ready to let go…….that’s when I’ll see them. It is a game of trust. Anticipation. Dreaming. Expecting.

Life is no different than the spring garden really; sometimes not much to see, but just there, just below your line of sight, is everything. Dream it out. Call it out. Trust it out. And when it comes, dance for joy – then turn around and do it again!

Marigold had never grown hearts before and was a little afraid at first. But then Anthea reminded him how they grow everything….

1. “Dream it!” she said and so they closed their eyes and thought up a big
picture of happy, pink hearts.

2. “Remember to expect it,” she told him and every morning Marigold imagined little
pink sprouts.

3. “Water it and talk nice to it,” she explained, “ because everything likes to be loved.”
With that, Marigold fluttered into her arms and gave her a big, pink hug.

4. “Be patient,” she reminded, “we mustn’t get frustrated on cloudy days.”

5. “Most of all,” she said hugging him with an even brighter pink inside, “Be grateful!”

These were mostly fun things to do, and in its very perfect timing, here it is.

Note: there was also jumping for joy between all the steps, which I believe sped things along. I think it a good thing to remember.

January 2009

2009-01-31T17:18:00.006-05:00

What is it about snowflakes that they make everything around them . . . magnificent?

Everything they touch sparkles, glistens, wears a robe of white. Entire hillsides, a forest of trees, the tiny whiskers on a cat’s nose.

Snowflakes fall without judgment. They don’t rush to the wild rose but pass the goldenrod. It is their joy to capture all below them and wrap them in white.

I don’t suppose the earth ever says, “no, no, I’m really not worth it,” and casts off the flakes. I’ve never seen a forest shake itself free.

Nature knows better; knows she’s perfect, in all her seasons, in all her ways. There is no vanity there, only respect for Who made her.

See if you can find a clever way to be a snowflake; make someone around you feel special!

Anthea and Marigold catch a glimpse of themselves in the snow.
Snow Angels!

December 2008

2008-12-26T17:05:00.004-05:00

Out the window, each little twig and every round berry wears a crown of ice! Snowbird loves the frosty weather. It makes his heart sing and his feet want to dance!

When the weather warms, Snowbird flies north, often into Canada, where the winds are cooler. Remember when we sent him off? Well, this little fellow spent his summer in Alaska!

Marigold jumped for joy when his loyal friend returned. Winter Fest is here . . . . snowflakes fall, and now you know who brought them!

December 2008

2008-12-25T17:19:00.008-05:00

A chorus of snowflakes pads the Earth,
Listen and you will hear peace, I think.

A deer moves, trusting through the night,
Be still, and you will see peace, I think.

Stars roam, gazing upon the world with grace,
Join them and you will find peace, I think.

And when the music stops,
leaving only candles and hushed voices
singing,
Dreaming,
Silent Night,
Then, you will know peace, I think.

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T07:34:00.002-05:00

Give Thanks. Be Thankful. Enjoy!

November 2008

2008-11-24T09:47:00.004-05:00

November . . . brisk, brazen, things are getting brown and tan. Birds are filling up at feeders. My meadow is lying down, leaning over, creating little nooks and hideouts for the small ones. November is tucking in, covering up, getting cozy for the winter ahead.

Our little groundhog is fast asleep in hibernation. He rests under a large rock in the fairy grove surrounded by dogwoods and silvery Russian olives. He has an “in” and an “out” side of the rock. From time to time we see fresh dirt kicked up in some remodeling.

Now that the cold has arrived, Anthea and Marigold see to it that their new friend is safe and warm. It’s his first hibernation so Mari tucks in with him, just for an hour or so, to make sure it gets off to a good start.

That’s what November is, a time for giving thank-yous.
Thank you for a luscious summer, for abundant berries and pumpkins, for seeds that will give it all again. Thank you Kinglets and Warblers for stopping by and singing on your travels south. Thank you Meadow for nurturing countless honeybees and now curving into frosty, wintery homes. Thank you trees for an effortless and extravagant color show. Thank you winter birds for coming
and staying to keep the garden joyful.

Thank you Mother Nature for giving and giving and giving.
That’s the song of November.

October 2008

2008-10-23T08:52:00.010-04:00

Let the fun begin . . .

September 2008

2008-09-29T15:42:00.009-04:00

Mist and fog and drizzle. A beautiful September afternoon. Everything is soaking up the quiet, restful drops. Summer has done her job. The zinnias are winding down now that the hummingbirds have moved on. Goldenrod is shaded behind a curtain of mist. It’s restful.

It’s the changing of guards, the passing of the torch. The gentle walking out of a door, and down the hall; the new door isn’t there just yet, but it will open when you arrive.

You can’t get there without September.

Anthea & Marigold settle down and enjoy the misty fog and drizzle. The quiet of letting summer be on her way . . . and the gentle anticipation of what’s to come. Oh, the beauty of the seasons. Have a soft September day.

August 2008

2008-08-31T21:16:00.013-04:00

Meadow sweet
Meadow fine
Honeybees all in a line . . .

The meadow is alive. We have goldenrod like a yellow sea behind our house, just past the fairy grove. It waves in the wind, glistens in the sunlight, and murmurs a soft gentle song to the bees. And they love the tune . . . Honeybees – Everywhere!

I understand they are losing their habitat, and for us humans that is a sad story. These bold little workers pollinate our vegetables and fruits.

Here’s how it works: An apple tree, for instance, produces a beautiful flower in spring…the honeybee comes along to drink the nectar inside the flower…she has to go in deep to find the nectar and while she’s wiggling around inside the flower, little bits of powdery pollen get stuck to her “furry” legs … when our friendly little bee flies off to visit another flower, the pollen from the first flower brushes off inside the second flower thereby pollinating it – only a flower that is pollinated will produce an apple. In a nutshell, without them, our fruits and vegetables don’t grow. Surely, you have seen the delicate white flower of the tomato or the bright buttery yellow flower that foretells the zucchini? These work the same way.

And they are losing their habitat. It doesn’t seem very wise, but then again, maybe we just forgot to watch, to listen, and to remember. I am lucky to have a meadow to remind me.

We are keepers of each other.

We need wild places to reconnect with the natural beauty that is Mother Nature; that is ourselves. The beauty of all things can be found in a mirror, or just outside your door. I have done nothing special with my meadow, other than to simply let it be. When I see and hear the bees buzzing happily along the flower tops I am pleased to give them a fresh, organic place to be; we need each other.

This morning Rob and I watched buzzy little bees jump in and out of the golden flowers in his mini pumpkin patch. Hurray! That means pumpkins for October! Thank goodness for bees!

Here is a bumblebee on goldenrod, and a honeybee with Marigold. The honeybees are slimmer and less fuzzy than the bumblebees.

July 2008

2008-07-31T09:13:00.020-04:00

The meadow behind our house is very alive. Every time I go, I see something new. As the weeks roll on, the meadow changes; hay falls, folding over the Yarrow, Queen Anne’s Lace reach for the sun, a spark or two of Goldenrod begins to flower. Asleep are the purples that first greeted us. If we had mowed much of this down, as planned, we would have missed this; the different stories of the meadow.

In every little nook - blackberries! . . . dark and plump, waiting to ripen. You can’t rush those. Beginning a pinkish red, only the sun, it seems, can paint their rich, final coat of midnight-berry-blue. And she takes her time. They look ready, but a slight tug on the vine tells you to wait. And if you do, it’s sugar in your mouth.

The meadow has its own life, its own pace. It’s up to me to sit back and listen. Participate in the unfolding. But not to rush it.

And so the blackberries sing me a song of patience, reminding me to breathe in, step slower, and blend with Nature’s rhythm.

If I sit back . . . and let the meadow come to me . . . I’m always rewarded. I simply have to say, I’m ready.

Anthea and Marigold have a whirlwind of new friends: a dashing box turtle, three dappled fawns and their proud mother (triplets!), a broad and rolling groundhog, baby bunnies that spring on bouncy feet, 13 baby turkeys nestled in the grass, majestic soaring story-book herons and a medley of colorful birds learning about birdfeeders ….. All hail the meadow!

June 2008

2008-06-18T14:33:00.011-04:00

After 10 years, Rob and I are heading out to new soil, new trees, new everything. Moving, as with most things, makes me think of the garden.

I wonder at plants and how long they’ve been passed down . . . what they know . . . how many fingers have traced their blooms . . . what songs have they heard . . . how many noses tingled with their sweet fragrance. Oh the secrets they must know!

I have iris from my Grandparent’s farm in Iowa. Some I will leave, some I will take. Think of it, my grandmother tended the ancestors of these iris. I love that idea. My mom has these iris, as do my sister and I. And so will a lovely new couple.

That’s love. That’s a garden.

That’s that quiet thing you can’t really outline or close in a book. It’s that quiet understanding that Life gives and gives and gives …….. freely ……. to everyone . . . all the time.

That’s the song of a garden.

Anthea and Marigold give every flower a farewell kiss before moving on. Mari tells each one how much it has meant to him and encourages it to keep blooming. Of course, as with all movings on, there are records to keep - Anthea and Marigold carefully take down the names and addresses of every little bird and buglet so they can keep in touch.

May 2008

2008-05-18T14:19:00.008-04:00

Springtime Lullaby

Spring drops
Rain drops
Little Robins hop – hop
Oh how the world sings,
Everything Spring!

Spring cheer
Flowers dear
Little fairies far and near
Sing of all the hope it brings,
Everything Spring!

Spring breeze
Honey bees
Sweet and fragrant melodies
All the world upon its wing,
Everything Spring!

April 2008

2008-04-22T11:56:00.012-04:00

HAPPY EARTH DAY!!!
So much excitement! Robins nesting on the trellis, English sparrows filling little painted houses with bits of border grass that dangle in the wind. The pond has changed over to Lilly pads and frogs and in one afternoon, we say good bye to the snowbirds and hello to the Ruby Crowned Kinglet.

April is about transition. About changing over, letting go, awaiting new. About moving….keep moving forward, like Cesar’s dogs, don’t lag in the past.

Rob and I were puttering through the garden just to see what was new here and different there when, all at once, a little pack of snowbirds lifted from the top of my holly tree. “Now!” one of them must’ve yelled and they laughed about it as they twittered over our heads – a band of happy travelers merrily on their way. “Good luck,” we call out, “happy travels!”

Rob and I look to the sky and together we miss Taffy at the same time.

Time passes but there is always more beauty. The never-ending beauty that simply shifts form, changes tune, taps you on the shoulder, “Look at me now. Did you expect this? See how I’m changed – it’s still me. I Am.”

The little snowbird, whose real name is “Dark-Eyed Junco”, is ready to make his way back to cooler climates. Anthea & Marigold send their friend off with hugs and well wishes (though Marigold is never really comfortable with good-byes.)

Anthea takes a moment to remind snowbird which way is North.

Mari welcomes the Ruby-Crowned Kinglet with a special poem though he can't help giggling through some of it.

March 2008

2008-03-25T16:41:00.019-04:00

There is a song to Spring. The crocus know it…even the frogs sleeping below my pond can feel its tune. In my apple tree, it was the little house finch who sang it out loud.

“Take note!” He seems to say, . . . remember to remember! His bright and cheery way always reminds me I am not alone. He sings – even with the bare branches.

Then the robin joined in with her “I’m-not-ready-to-go-to-bed-yet song. You know the one that comes when the afternoons begin to stretch out just a little longer and the sky begins to give just a little more color: Deedle-lee, deedle-lee, then a very high tweedle-lee! It reminds me of Taffy. He loved to watch them from the bedroom window of our old apartment. He knew it meant the dark times are over. It meant spring was just under cover, but only just. It meant all the believing was worth it.

I think, too, there is a song of flowers blooming on branches, like the kind my apple tree will sing. But you have to listen with more than your ears!

Anthea and Marigold love music, to them, every ounce of spring is worth celebrating. This little chorus is especially for Taffy.

It is the White-throated Sparrow, Tufted Titmouse, House Finch, and House Wren.

Happy Spring!

February 2008

2008-02-26T13:07:00.009-05:00

Marigold was too sad to pose for his picture. And, besides, his wings weren't feeling good either.

It was not an easy month. Our beloved kitty, Taffy, passed away. He was 17 ½ years old and if you had the pleasure of truly knowing him, you’d be better for it. He was the essence of Love and Wisdom and Joy, and we were blessed to have him in our family. He taught us how to forgive . . . how to play with reckless abandon . . . and how to be in the moment. I was going to write something about the resting garden this month, but Anthea and Marigold thought we should write about Love.

Really, they’re not all that different. Outside, the garden waits, trusting that the sun will come. That it will come enough to warm things up, to brighten things up . . . and when it does, the flowers come too. Truly they know that it never left them. So it is with Love.

This little picture belongs to a story I wrote after Taffy passed away. It has to do with love and saying good bye, and the beauty and unendingness of Life. Maybe I’ll have it published one day.

January 2008

2008-01-24T12:15:00.005-05:00

Where there is darkness,
There is Light.

Where the soil is black,
Sprouts appear

Where winter trees darken,
A window emerges

When hope cascades
Into a pile of rubble

There it is.

Waiting
Ready, to lift you back up.

I like to think of this as “Church of Trees” or maybe “Cathedral”, as Rob likes. Doesn't it look just like a stained glass window? This little scene emerges out of my back window every evening through the woods. Thank goodness for that. And reminds me that no matter how frightening things get, or how very sad or unthinkable, where there is dark…….there is light.

When an animal or any loved one is not feeling well, Anthea and Marigold spend lots of time praying and thinking good thoughts for them. They imagine their friend light on his feet and romping through the warm, green grass. Anthea is very good at joyful thoughts, she has lots of them. Marigold sings tiny springtime songs to remind their friend what is to come. Together, they make the most wonderful bedside company. They know that no matter what happens, all is surrounded in Love.

It’s terribly hard, isn’t it, when loved ones don’t feel well. Send them a prayer and a happy thought - One that would make them smile if they thought it themselves.

Rob showed me how to do this. He learned it in 4th grade. First, paint a background in any sky colors you choose. You must let it dry. Then, wet some darker paint and paint a horizontal streak across the bottom., use plenty of water, it should be very wet. Now, take a straw and blow upwards on the paint, the most beautiful trees will appear. As the trees begin to grow, move your straw further up and you can aim in different directions and blow the most delicate little branches into them. (Rob's is on the left and reminds me a quiet winter evening, mine on the right looks like walking trees) You should give it a try.

December 2007

2007-12-22T11:11:00.005-05:00

Wishing you all your favorite blessings . . .

November 2007

2007-11-14T15:34:00.008-05:00

I have an interesting friend out these days. We saw him first in October being carried by his mother back to the nest. I have never seen a mother squirrel carry her baby. It didn’t look like a squirrel at all, but one giant mound of fur hopping gently across the lawn, through the hostas, up the tree, and finally disappearing into a ball of leaves.

A few days later, the baby crawled across the yard to where I had scattered sunflower seeds. He crawled. Squirrels hop merrily wherever they go - it’s one of their gifts. This one crawled. Not because he wasn’t merry, but because his back legs didn’t work. They dragged on the ground. Both of them. He moved here and there using his front arms to pull him along.

I felt horrible. Horrible that he was hurt, horrible that I didn’t know what to do for him.

We set out fresh water low to the ground and seeds where he could reach. Every few days, we saw him. Pulling along. Eating acorns from the driveway and seeds on the path. Even playing with his brothers and sisters by the fairy garden. We thought, perhaps, we should catch him. Bring him to a wildlife rehab where he could be watched over, fed, kept warm. Sheltered from the breeze, the rustling leaves. But whenever we spoke about it, he would disappear and we would end up saying prayers for him instead. Maybe he just wanted to be free.

It had been a week, I hadn’t seen him. The clouds were gray and I looked out toward the pond just to see if the frogs would come out despite the lack of sun, and there he was! Sitting under the hanging feeder picking up seeds. I knew it was him because when he grabs a seed, he has to lay on his belly to eat it. He can’t stand up. He was beautiful. Content. Letting the breeze touch his ears, enjoying the rustle of leaves as he searched for seeds.

Enjoying the rustle of leaves as he searched for seeds.

I watched his fur glisten, I watched his happy eyes when he found seed after seed at his feet. I watched the changing leaves curl by his side.

I enjoyed the rustle of leaves as I search for my own seeds.

P.S. I call him Harvard because he’s just so smart.

Anthea & Marigold, of course, take extra good care with the gentle ones. Mari's been floating around all afternoon storing up acorns!

October addition

2007-10-29T10:58:00.003-04:00

Hey there, just figured out how to enable the "comments" part. Ok, I'll give it a try. In the meantime, enjoy the leaves . . . .

October 2007

2007-10-13T09:21:00.020-04:00

They let them go so the deer can eat.
That’s what the oaks do.

Share your song, let go your gifts
- Sing!

Autumn Harvest

Come one, come all
There’s plenty to share -
Crabapples in red,
a seed to spare!

Come one, come all
There’s plenty to share -
A field of Goodness
A glorious fare!

September 2007

2007-09-14T18:50:00.001-04:00

I'm a little late with my paintings this month (too many deadlines!) so I'll just go ahead and put up the words for now.

There is a word you might know called Namaste’ From my understanding it means:
I honor the God in you. Or I honor the Good in you, or the Beauty perhaps.

I had two nice apples that fell from our tree that I almost removed this year as it is leaning at a 45 degree angle and practically taking down our fence. I decided to give these apples to the deer that on very happy days, come wandering down our path in the woods. I strolled out, rather hastily at first, when a wood thrush galloped along a pile of brush slowing me down with the chatter of his feet. Oh yeah, I thought . . pay attention.

I arrived at the spot where we set out corn and other goodies in hopes they will be found. I placed the two apples in as pretty a position as I could and asked the fairies to make sure someone found them and put them to good use. With my blessing complete, I turned so that I might head towards the meadow that surrounds the church and there she was. Just a baby. Ears perked up, eyes wide and watching. I paused, motionless. “Namaste”, the word filled my mind and it was sent as a love letter across the 20 feet of path that divided us. The little doe stared back. I have some apples for you, I said silently. Again, she stared back.
This is the time I usually watch, so taken to be eye to eye with such a quiet, peaceful creature, until at last, they turn aside, or spring away into the woods. This time, I turned away. I let her stay with the blessing I had left for her. I took my share. I didn’t use it up like usual. I left full.

My garden is so full of life right now, almost anytime you come out you get a surprise. Goldfinches are chipping away at rich seeded centers of the black-eyed-susans. Catbird is testing out the pyracantha berries willing them to ripen. A set of robins have started to enjoy the crabapples, the size of plump peas with crimson coats. The hummingbird who has been visiting my zinnias all summer long has joined the buffet of my newly bloomed sedum. The large leaves of the black-eyed-susans are peppered with dropped seeds which I turn in my hand and toss to the back of the bed for harvest next spring. The cleome seeds are bursting from their long slipper-like pods preparing for a lush meadow of blooms next year. Everything is giving back, tenfold, or maybe hundredfold. That’s the way a garden works.

Marigold practices drawing the Goldfinch, lucky for Marigold, he is very patient.

Mrs. Goldfinch hasn't as bright a coat as her husband, but Mari loves her just the same!

August 2007

2007-08-19T17:53:00.005-04:00

August, even the name sounds pretty. It conjures visions of peach, dusky skies, open prairies dotted with white Queen Anne’s lace and a sort of quiet that you don’t get when things are gearing up for the summer. Everything’s here now, there’s nowhere to go. Nothing to do but watch,

and let it come. . .

Can you see it in the field wading between the branches of milkweed working its way toward the breeze who moves it slowly in and out through the fence poles and gently, in the next moment, the very next moment, right into your breath? Peace.

Can you see it in the catbird who lingers softly on the edge of the birdbath, dripping, content, not ready to leave the poolside just yet? Can you see it in the spider webs, in the circles and circles of gentle work? Can you see it on a morning when you are lucky enough to have nothing to do and you sit for no reason, unaware that you’re yearning . . . and there it comes . . . Peace.

I saw for the very first time this afternoon, as I was bargaining with the raindrops to hold off just a bit longer while my clothes dried on the line, something I had never seen - 8 or 10 herons flying side by side overhead, above my trees. Silent. Completely silent. In three more seconds, they were gone. Their long legs showing the grace of flight. I had sat myself down, for the briefest of moments while my kitty decided whether he was going in or out of the porch. And for some reason I looked up.

August has its own quiet way of whispering – and with her clever disguises, shows us peace.

July 2007

2007-07-18T15:25:00.011-04:00

My backyard is like an envelope of trees, a horseshoe of black in the evening.

The fireflies have come.

Sparks of light, one answering the other’s call. Surrounded by a curtain of black, I feel as though I’m in a magician’s pocket full of magic and tricks and the unexplained. I can almost hear the faint sound of chimes as surely, somewhere, someone is celebrating this work of art. My cat leans against my crossed legs and he’s content that I’m actually paying attention rather than wondering how I might finish a painting or get my haircut. I am completely enthralled, grateful, and he loves it.

The Universe is always calling. Perhaps there is no way it does not call – that would mean we all get to be right. To me it calls through nature; through fireflies, purrs, a falling leaf. And when I’m smart enough to pay attention, I get to remember that all is well.

Here's a tiny little 4th of July story for you . . .

June 2007

2007-06-30T20:17:00.006-04:00

I have a knack for finding secret places. Like this morning when I convinced my husband to trek out with me on my walk. There was an opening, well, a space really, where the wild roses were not so tight. An invitation.

We had to step high, like fancy horses, to avoid the prickers that reached in front and in back of our legs, “tread softly,” they seemed to say, “slow down, this is worth the effort.” Somewhere, I could hear on the other side of the brush, the pull of water. I was not disappointed. The shale was black and wide and stepped like a staircase. I don’t know who was happier, the water or the shale for making an ocean out of a 4 foot wide bend of stream that I had never seen before. And the tree roots, wider than both of your hands, form large quiet trees begging us to follow their winding and dipping curves. Sheer curiosity moved us along and suddenly, there it was . . . an old weathered rope swing. Someone, perhaps someone like you, had shimmied to the top of the tree and wedged a knot of rope in the little crook where the tree could not decide which way it wanted to grow. Or maybe the tree knew that crooks make wonderful playgrounds and planned it that way. Your guess is as good as mine.

Me first! I swung out curling my legs above the clear water. I was 12 again with my best friend in Maine where we took deep breaths before swinging wildly into the air, doing our best to hold hands, and dropping into the cool black lake, then the flapping, flapping, flapping until we reached the surface and breathed again. I swung back with a smile. Rob next; I didn’t ask where he went, but he looked 10 to me swinging over a fishing hole he never had.

I have a knack for finding secret places.

Crooks of hollow trees where messages were undoubtedly sent from one captive to another; a fairy tree where the keeper of the forest surely resides; the leaf of the nasturtium after a rain, and have you ever seen the center of a Shasta daisy – it has its very own yellow brick road. The universe waits for us in these places.

I just read a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye about a man who gave his Love two skunks for a valentine. She cried. But he had seen such beauty in the skunk’s eyes. My favorite line goes like this,

And the poems that had been hiding

in the eyes of skunks for centuries

crawled out and curled up at his feet.”

Keep your eyes open, you never know what’s in there.

May 2007

2007-05-16T13:22:00.007-04:00

Everything happens in May.

The trees are in bloom and my favorite maple is throwing little whirly helicopters into the air. When the sun is behind my woods and the wind blows hard, it looks like a whirl of snow passing through in short sleeves. Each little helicopter catching the light and showing us how to fly.

The birds are choosing houses and gathering sticks and my crabapple is blanketed in pink and white blossoms that sweeten the air; the whole world is changing over, ready to believe once more in the promise of life. It’s everywhere.

Blades of grass are green with summer and reaching reaching for the sun. The bees are buzzing buzzing at the cotton candy on the trees. And you, I suspect keep looking looking outside until you can get your bare feet in the grass and your face in the sun. And so it is with May.
Dreams abound!

This little picture happened last May, but I didn’t have a Garden Diary then so I’m sharing it with you now. Something you may not know about baby bunnies…..their mama is very clever, rather than hiding her nest in the bushes where a predator might go searching, she digs it right out in the open. Right in the middle of my backyard! It is about 6 inches deep and wide and covered with her checkerboard fur; a patchwork quilt of softness, comfort and affection. I’ve already told you she is very clever, now listen to this . . . she only visits the nest a couple of times a day! - and only for a couple of minutes each time. That way, no one can watch her and discover her precious babies. She can’t go hemming and hawing about how gorgeous her new bunny-lets are and put up pink and blue signs and fancy balloons; it wouldn’t be safe. Lucky for me, I knew this. (Well, I looked on the internet and then I knew it.) So I watched silently from my deck, a good 20 feet away. Sure enough right around dusk, she hopped quietly to the nest, gently removed the fur covering, and nursed her children. When they were full and satisfied, she covered them once more and hopped back into the woods. Clever, huh?

So if you come across these little delights, don’t assume mama has abandoned them. Remember, she only visits a couple of times a day so keep a watch out for her. If you take a peek in the nest, as long as the babies look plump, they’re okay. And remember, mama’s probably watching you, so, as with all living things, be gentle and filled with love.

update

2007-05-12T17:16:00.000-04:00

2007 Entries uploaded soon. Got a little back logged......stay tuned!

April 2007

2007-04-17T18:01:00.007-04:00

If the titmice and cardinals and chickadees never ate any of the seed I put out for them, I would have a mound of seed piled a mile high in my garden, and I would be a very sad person. I’m thinking of giving and receiving. I imagine a giant, gentle hand taking care of all. And I get to be a little hand doling out seed here, a smile there, and, in the same breath, I remember it is also my job to receive.

What good are cherry blossoms without the wind to carry their scent, the eye to sit beneath them and ponder their shape, the heart to float among them and dream? They are beauty, yes. But that beauty is tripled a thousand times with each note of thanks; with each nod of appreciation; with each breath of wonder. And so I’m glad the birds receive from me. They show us a very good lesson as we look to follow our dreams. Are we receiving the opportunities, the helping hands, the cherry blossoms, or letting them pass unnoticed?

Think of a time when you helped someone (or some thing). Remember how good it made you feel? Remember to return the favor! R e c e i v e.

So this month’s diary is devoted to giving and receiving because they really are the same thing. Next time you receive, take a glance at the other person’s face, notice how you give them the opportunity to smile, how you allow their heart to flutter with happiness…..hearts always know, don’t they.

As you can see, Anthea & Marigold are experts at both giving and receiving; they’ve had the best teacher – Mother Nature!

March 2007

2007-04-04T17:29:00.008-04:00

If you want to smell Spring in the middle of Winter, all you need do is ruffle your nose into my kitty cat’s fur. Fresh breeze, tulips dreaming, and a promise of hope, it’s all there in his fur. (I wish I had hair like that.)

On the first day of this month I was greeted with a batch of bright, buttery, yellow crocus in my front bed. Today, they are closed tight with a few inches of new snow on their heads. They came when they did, I suppose, to remind me to keep watch; a change is coming. They are covered in snow now, I suppose, to remind me to be patient and not to interfere with the natural timing of things. So, I have hope and trust and patience in a little batch of crocus and my kitty’s golden fur.

So it is with Spring!

Here are my crocus, you can almost hear them singing for Spring. Anthea and Marigold keep very good watch over the bulbs in the garden, singing them to sleep in Autumn, and waking them with gentle taps in spring.

February 2007

2007-02-18T16:22:00.010-05:00

Our Carolina Wren stays a warm burnt sienna brown, even in winter. She doesn’t gray like the other birds. I like the idea. Although winter is the essence of sleepy wistful rest, the spirit is never still.

This morning I found my favorite stream to be thickly frozen over. It’s about a mile from my house and makes for an invigorating walk, like knowing you’re going to win something when you arrive at the fair.

I sneaker skated leaving wide uneven trails where the fine snow had already fallen. How does water turn to land? I saw places I don’t normally see. The echo under the old, stone bridge was more hollow than I imagined. And on the other side - running water; pure, whispery, alive! Just like us . . . in winter.

Anthea and Marigold enjoy the beauty of winter – At first, Marigold is a little uneasy on his skates, but Chickadee promises to go slow.

This is the dark-eyed-junco, (otherwise known as “Snowbird”), as you can see, he is quite agile on skates.

January 2007

2007-01-04T12:21:00.003-05:00

With windchills hovering at a meager 0 degrees, we finally have a day that feels like January.

The woods call, don’t they, on a day like this. Still, cold, but very present. Wondering if I might disturb their silence, or swim in it. I leave the scurry of birds at my feeder – finches, titmice, cardinals, nuthatches and a brave flicker – and enter into a hush of winter.

The woods smile. They hold a deep knowing of almost everything…faith, perseverance and a silent gentle welcome, that if I listen to, always invites me in.

Always what I need.

If you were a bird, you would undoubtedly enjoy the special perks that come with winter - a silent, slower world; feeders miraculously filled with treats and cool wind lifting beneath your feathers.

December 2006

2006-12-24T11:55:00.004-05:00

The sounds and the hum started well before we walked in the doors. It began through the cemetery beneath the quiet stars.

Hearts were swelling. Inside, people gathered in their Christmas best; girls in plaid skirts, boys in pressed collars. The bells began their song. Hearts were growing.

A brave young woman steps to the front to sing “Oh Holy Night” for all of us. She stumbles through the first chorus and we will her through it. A young man played saxophone while nimble fingers followed along on piano. Hearts were uniting.

Amid all of this were messages of love; for everyone. Hearts were remembering.

Outside this small church made of stone, there was a horse who knew the meaning of love. He wandered free taking in companionship as it came and missing his mother. There are bluebirds outside this church who display themselves on the ancient tree I still don’t know the name of. And inside, stars. Tonight, the trees hold stars in their hands. We all do.

An old woman sat in the pew ahead of me. Beneath her dress, she wore black flat boots in place of heels. She was gray, leaning a bit, but her foot swayed - with each note of the bell choir, the sax and the piano. Hearts were stirring. She was my favorite, though I sat next to a little star myself. We lit each other’s candle during Silent Night. I sang, sometimes I watched and I believed it could be like this; always. I am seeing it, so it is possible. I think of the animals and the earth on a night like this. I know the earth feels it. I hope the animals do, the ones who need to be remembered. I remember for them and ask for their peace. Just as I ask for my own.

Wondering as I wander.

November 2006

2006-11-15T10:50:00.005-05:00

I have a habit of picking up every beautiful leaf on my morning walk. By the time I return home, I’ve got a rainbow of colors spread out in my gloved hand. If I take them inside, they’ll dry and crinkle so I tuck them neatly by the pumpkins to save for later.

Usually, there is no later. But my intentions were good, to paint, paint, paint every nook and cranny of those natural wonders. When I watch leaves falling from trees I am amazed at how happy they look. How carefree, they never look back.

I lost a dear friend of mine last year at this time. I missed her. I missed her and did not see her again. I was late. I watched a star go out two nights before when I prayed for her, but I didn’t listen. I called it coincidence.

But she is a good friend. And good things never truly go. I sense her still; in the falling leaves that tell me it’s okay to let go; in the falling leaves that say slow down and just ride for a while; and in the falling leaves that whisper you are beautiful. Still.

How can a tree let go of everything she has and not worry?

I have always found trees to be very trustworthy. They know that letting go is part of life. They know it is the beginning of renewal.

October 2006

2006-10-05T10:50:00.002-04:00

Autumn Joy

Have you ever tried to catch a leaf

that tumbles from the sky?

It’s almost there inside my hand

then Whoosh! it passes by

A roaring wind- the game begins

my heart anticipates-

Yellow-red or fiery gold

which one will I chase?

September 2006

2006-09-16T10:04:00.006-04:00

There is something about cool air traveling through the trees that excites me. There is movement everywhere. The trees are changing, not in color yet, but they are ready. And around my pond the birds are coming! -the ones that travel through and visit only a week or two, or maybe just a day, before heading out to warmer pastures. A Ruby-Crowned-Kinglet jumps among the rose stems that overhang the water. His tiny wings cause ripples on the surface when he dashes overhead. Never have you seen such a springy little fellow, and through my binoculars he flashes his ruby feathers just long enough to make me smile. Last fall the Golden-Crowned-Kinglet and I watched the setting sun among wild crabapples and blossoming bittersweet. This year there is a new development where the horse used to wander and the hedge, with its ancient crabapples and twists of orange berries, has been taken down.

I am glad to have a pond and an apple tree of my own and a place for the birds. It’s the least I can do. And so, here is a picture of my little Kinglets for you - perhaps they’ll be in your backyard next! Sometimes, if you’re lucky like me, the Golden-Crowned-Kinglet will come close enough for you to see his crown and hear his tiny wisps. But that takes wild places and cool breezes and patience.

Best of luck, because if you do, you’ll have a friend forever.

There are two Kinglets, the Golden-Crowned and the Ruby-Crowned, both are very small birds, but the Golden-Crowned is even smaller than the Ruby! Marigold accidentally called the female Kinglet “Queenlet” and he gave a very pretty bow, no one said anything but Anthea told him later they’re both called Kinglets!

August 2006

2006-08-10T13:14:00.011-04:00

To sit on my deck in an August evening is to hear a symphony of strange and wonderful sounds; crickets and cicadas and the late cardinal. A handful of unknowns that one moment sound right next to you and the next, miles away; only a distant conversation.

My deck is screened eight feet up the sides, but there is no roof so that we can look up into the giant Sycamore branches and through to the sky. At night, if there is a full moon, the leaves cast intimate shadows that waltz when the wind moves through them. It has become too dark to read and, because our beloved cat isn’t ready to come in yet, my husband and I sit under the pale light surrounded by a ruckus of chatter. I wish I had a fairy to introduce me to this nightly cast of creatures with such powerful voices. Instead, I simply have to imagine who is making the “kah, kah, kah, …” and the spinning sounds like a baseball card on a bike wheel.

If I close my eyes (and get past the idea that a spider is going to land on me!) I can meet these creatures one by one in my imagination. Clicking and humming and reminding us that nighttime is just as alive as the day.

Here are a few imaginary little fellows; maybe you could do better….

July 2006

2006-07-15T13:55:00.008-04:00

With humming birds, you don’t hear them coming. You have to just wander to the kitchen flower box for no particular reason and look out for even less of a reason and get stopped in your tracks. A teensy little heavenly thing bobbing around the flowers and you forget to breathe. And by the time you get your cat in the window and call your husband down she’s gone. That’s usually the way it is with hummingbirds. Though one time it was different.

I had set a chair in the shade by my zinnia patch and I was looking out into my other garden bed just waiting for something good to happen when a little hummer came. She was only a foot away and I had a very nice look at all her shiny feathers and the way her tiny feet were held and how the sun shaped her delicate face as she sampled the zinnias. Two times she came and let me watch her like that. Then she was gone. Some time had passed when I heard a little chirp in my left ear. I turned and she was looking right at me as if to say, “Pay attention, here I am!”

So now I do. Because everything good really is all around you. And when I forget, I listen for the chirp.

June 2006

2006-06-01T15:03:00.008-04:00

It is June 1^st and I am doing my diary early. I have to. The wrens are out! We went to run an errand and found five peeping, tailless, fluttery spoonfuls of baby Carolina Wrens dotting all sorts of things in our garage. I wish my eyes were cameras because they landed on my antique rake, my ancient shovels (which my husband tells me I have to stop buying) and on my neat little bushel baskets. Each event would make the most delightful painting. Yet, honestly, I’d never get them all done anyway.

But they’re out and it’s time to celebrate. I believe we have five fledglings despite the six eggs I saw in the nest. I showed you the eggs in last months article. If I can, I shall take a good look and paint a picture of these babies because you really should see them. The wrens are among my favorite birds, but then again, if I’ve got them in eyesight, they all become my favorites.

Perhaps I’ll find them in my rose garden next; it really is fabulous this year. The mama and papa are scurrying along recklessly trying to feed their wormy morsels accordingly, but the little ones don’t want to sit still. I imagine that’s just what it’s like when you’ve got yourself a new pair of wings!

(…the baby didn’t really sit next to the rose, I made that part up, but I couldn’t resist keeping this yellow beauty to myself.)

May 2006

2006-05-06T12:22:00.005-04:00

It is precisely this time of year that I remember why I don’t use chemicals in my yard. We have the boldest little robins, speckled and tailless hopping about; their mothers and fathers arriving with beaks full of green worms and other tasty treats.

We have new wrens too! The House Wrens traded in their contemporary for a more traditional house that sits atop the arbor and, today, these littlest of wrens are leaving their home for the first time. One brave fellow has ventured from his dark wooden house; flapping his wings but going nowhere, he chatters the lovely wren song for the first time with only a few notes out of place. Soon, another curious face appears in the hole and I can almost hear the sunshine coaxing them out. She joins her brother on the arbor, sings, sits still, looks around and hops back in. I think there are four all together. They take turns hopping in and out and learning to sing. Two have trusted their wings and now sit below the holly awaiting mom and dad’s lunch basket.

When I see these babies so delighted in their new world and I see these parents working so hard to feed their young, I wouldn’t dare spoil their work. The worms that are sprayed do get put into little mouths. I have seen, more than once, a dead robin on my morning walks lying on the brightest and prettiest green lawn you ever saw.

I don’t like weeds, but I like more the vision of newborns munching happily on fresh, clean food; the sight of mamas and papas feeding their families mouthful after mouthful of garden critters. That’s hard work. It’s a gift I get to watch and so I do my part. I let them have life as it was meant to be, full of plenty, full of freedom, full of abundance. They are good teachers….. look around, what you want is just around the corner…Keep moving! Nature knows what we need. Trust. She will deliver. It’s all right here.

Happy everything to you.

PS. Carolina Wren has nested in an old flower pot in the garage. When she left her nest for a moment, we held our breath, got on our tippy toes and carefully snuck a peek: two of the tiniest, wettest little babies leaning on their yet un-hatched siblings. AWWWWWW! I would try to paint it for you but I hadn’t a long enough look!

April 2006

2006-04-09T15:39:00.003-04:00

I wish you were here, peering over my shoulder. The feathered ones are hopping about the garden with mouthfuls of grass and moss and other curious treasures left over from the winter patch. It looks like a rummage sale and oh, are they enthusiastic!

House Wren has chosen the round, white-washed house with the pointy little top. I had meant to paint her name above the door, but I probably pulled weeds instead. Anyway, here she comes, a rather wide and horizontal shape (when her mouth is full of twigs and other earthy stuff), heading into a very roundish hole. And though you aren’t next to me, I’m sure you can imagine as I actually see, that many of the sticks do not make it into the nest but fall to the ground. Frustrated, I decide to help, preparing as I might a bundle of small sticks easily fitted through a round door.

I slip on my boots and head to the garden, just to see for myself what all the excitement is about. This is what I notice…

Miss Wren does not need my help in gathering nesting supplies. Under my black-eyed-susans (which are already 4 inches of green leaves high (yippee!) I coax out bundles of old, broken stems properly sized, properly shaped for a nest. Beneath my hemlock, the one by my studio window, I find blankets of soft and feathery twigs that winter’s bellow has brought down. Not only are they thin and flexible, but the edges are cut with ridges; perfect for clinging to each other and fastening a nest firmly to a tree. In all the quiet places, under all the growing things I find fluffy mosses and sticks and grasslets and muds for every style home.

There you have it! Mother Earth has done it again and I am struck with the care that She has for all her little babies. For all of us!

I have shown you the House Wren and the Carolina Wren, two of my favorites! Both have an irresistibly delightful song and a charming manner of flitting about like little winged mice. Marigold, being the helpful sort that he is, helps Carolina Wren with her nesting chores.

I will keep an eye out for Chickadee too and keep you posted on the robin nesting in the prickly holly tree.

Until then, know that good things are coming!