New Year's Eve 2009

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

November 2009

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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!