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.
