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I’ve been thinking about swan songs and signals. This led me to information about the constellation Cygnus. I thought about the letters ‘cy’, and I was reminded of the word cyborg, and strangely the thought of high fives came into my mind.

It can be quite strange when you follow the random and yet connected paths our minds can take.

As I focused my research on the constellation Cygnus, I learned about the Summer Triangle in the sky. This is called an ‘asterism’ and it is made up of three of the brightest stars from three different constellations.

These three stars are named Vega, Deneb, and Altair. Vega is the brightest star in the constellation named Lyra the Harp. Deneb is the brightest star in the constellation named Cygnus (which is Latin for swan). Altair (which is Arabic) is the brightest star in the constellation Aquila the Eagle. These three stars form an asterism called the Summer Triangle.

Constellations were named in ancient times when the night sky served as a movie theater screen, and ancient storytellers would weave a story in order to remember the pattern and placement of these stars. These constellations helped farmers to mark the seasons for planting and harvesting, and they helped sailors navigate the seas.

These stories fed our human imagination, and as the stories grew so did our imaginations. Today we feed our imaginations at indoor movie screens with fantastical stories of space travel and comic heroes.

Down on earth this summer I hope to spend more time outside studying our ancient movie screen. Perhaps I can weave my own stories about our earthly practices that can feed our realistic lives. I am human so I can hope.

 

I have a book by Miranda Lundy called Sacred Geometry. Here is a picture of pages 18 and 19 from this book.

Today I kept thinking about Phi which some have named it the symbol for IIT (integrated information theory.) (alt 227)

All of this is complicated for me.

I don’t know why I kept thinking about this today. However, these were the thoughts that came into my mind: A Phi without an H is a Pi. You can’t eat a Pi without an E. And the Phi without the hi is just a P.

I was reminded of this book I bought several years ago. I find it fascinating. I was able to find this picture online at wooden books.

When I saw the title, Pyramid Pie, I laughed because you can’t eat this pie either. I thought it interesting she called it “a marriage of everything.” Now this is very inclusive.

 

The praying mantis poses like a Kung Fu master, a Shaolin monk or a Shaman priest.

It can be as still as a stone or strike with a shameless speed.

In an instant its hidden wings can appear and ride the wind on waves of power.

Its many eyes are ever watchful, and its 360 degrees of perception means it is always prepared to fight in any direction.

It is fearless and it has no thoughts of death.

My garden is flush full of color and life these days. Yesterday was a strange day, and the events should be recorded.

A common yard bird, either a sparrow or a finch, spontaneously developed a new sport. I’ll call it pond skimming.

The pond was put in over ten years ago and I’ve spent countless hours observing the pond and all the wild life it attracts. I had never before yesterday witnessed this strange bird behavior.

I can’t accurately identify the bird because I was observing from my kitchen window. It is much easier to say what it was not than what it was. It wasn’t a catbird, wren, robin, mocking bird or cardinal, and it wasn’t a blackbird or a crow. It was rather small and brown, like a sparrow or a finch. In any case, I was shocked by what I witnessed.

This small brown bird flew down over the pond and dipped itself ever so slightly across the surface of the water and then flew up and circled around and repeated this action at least four or five times. My thought was that it was playing with the fish, though its feet looked too small to catch anything. The bird bath and the flute boy fountain are rather dangerous places with my husband’s feral cats stalking the place. This bird was determined to clean itself and it had come up with an adaptation.

I’m happy to report that none of the eight fish were harmed. They are fairly large now, bigger than last summer. They survived the winter. Last summer there were eleven fish. Three fish were lost between last summer and now. My husband took pictures with his phone of a big hawk sitting on the granite that surrounds the pond. The hawk must have been looking for lunch. No dead fish were ever found, so it is still a mystery how the three were lost. The best suspect is the hawk.

I will return to the strange events of yesterday.

There are two feral cats that make my garden their home. I’m not too happy about this. My husband feeds them, and thus they stay. I’m more fond of the birds and the fish. They have less predatory behavior. Though, the birds can bicker, and yesterday was especially loud.

One of the feral cats killed a catbird, which I’m sure was provoking it. I saw the cat carrying the bird in its mouth. I yelled at the cat and it ran away with the bird still in its mouth. Now and then, I’ll see a dead bird carcass left here and there in the garden. It is  usually missing its head which I guess it the main source of the cat’s irritation. It is never eaten. It is a sport kill and not a survival kill.

The cats and I are not exactly friends, though I’ve never harmed them. On rare occasion I’ve threatened my husband that I will. On rare occasion I’ve taken pity on them and fed them when my husband could not. I think I’ve done this more out of fear of what harm they could wreak.

The cats have been warily watching me since early spring. This is the year than I am consistently bringing the beauty back and regularly nurturing its growth. There is no better way for me to feel happy and at peace than in a beautiful garden.

The cats had mistakenly assumed the garden was under their control. They now know I hold the power and that I only tolerate them out of respect for my husband. Yesterday their unhappiness was expressed.

In the afternoon when I sat by the pond to feed the fish, once again I was shocked. As I looked across the fountain bowl to the other side of the pond, my eyes settled upon a dead catbird face down, with its head still intact, floating on top of the water. It looked rather young, and could not have fallen from the sky. I knew then that the cat had decided that its earlier bird kill would irritate me the most by being dropped in the pond. Fortunately I saw it before it had time to become bloated or decayed.

I’m happy to report that the catbirds are still abundantly represented, so there is no fear of their extinction. However, I’m beginning to wonder how long I’ll continue to tolerate my husband’s feral cats.

My big-ear pig no longer sits among dry stems and weeds.

Reawakening and renewal surrounds its terra-cotta figure with green, yellow, red, and brown.

My garden passion is returning.

My idle hours are spent making wish lists for additions. Mother Nature has her own ideas, and thoughts of removal are sometimes entertained.

Though, most thoughts of death and dying and passing ghosts are fading. The earth takes care and recycles.

New life and color are evidence that life goes on. Organic mass decomposes and its energy is passed along.

My mother’s spirit surrounds me in my garden. Lily of the Valley was one of her favorite flowers. I’m making plans to put some in.

Today the red and  yellow Coreopsis and peachy  Peruvian lily keep company with the big-ear terra-cotta pig.

Today was a day of beauty for me. I was indulging my vanity at the hair salon. My daughter’s day of beauty was yesterday at the nail salon. Pink Mermaid now adorns her nails.

I’ve been going to the same stylist for many years. We both love gardens and often talk about them. As she did my hair and we talked, the song, A Rose is Still a Rose by Aretha Franklin, kept playing in the background of my mind.

My stylist’s name is Azy. Today it dawned on me to ask her whether her name was a shortened version of another name. It turns out her mother named her Azam. At her first hair salon they suggested she shorten it to Azy. Her family still calls her Azam.

She speaks Farsi and is Iranian by birth. She has lived here in the U.S. for a very long time. She has two grown daughters. One is a dentist and the other is a lawyer.

I had been told a long time ago that my middle name, June, means ‘dear’ in Farsi; so today, I asked her if this was true. She smiled and said, “it means ‘my dear’.”

I asked her what her name Azam means. She wasn’t clear in her answer, so I looked it up when I got home. It turns out it means “greatest”.

While still online, I decided to look up the complete lyrics for the song, A Rose is Still a Rose.

Now, my motivational message is: “Baby Girl, you hold the power.”

I’ve been out in the garden the past few days. I’m not as fast and headstrong as I used to be. I’ve decided that a perfect lawn and a perfect garden is a man-made invention. My crazy obsession with perfection led me to unhappiness. The best way I’ve decided is to work with Mother Nature rather than against her.

Today I worked on the side that I can’t see from my kitchen window. A little future encouragement to step outside.

As I was cutting back dead growth and pulling onion weeds, I was reminded of the history of the land where my garden now sits. I read once that it was farmland used for growing grass and making hay. In my mind, I envisioned onion fields.

A housing development was built in the early fifties. My husband bought our house from the original owner. The developer apparently went broke after battling with the rock that lies not far below the surface.

The original owner was a man named Kohl. I’ve heard he was a gardener of sorts, though by the time I arrived on the scene there was little organic evidence. His presence is embedded in the concrete block garden house that now holds up our deck, and the concrete steps that connect our back yard to the side yard on that side of the house.

The other day I read something about church acoustics and church ghosts singing along with the choir. This made me wonder if old man Kohl’s ghost still comes around my place.

Many years ago when my garden was in its heyday, and when I had four trellises full of abundant yellow roses, I had a stranger stop by. He claimed to be a relative of the old man Kohl. He had heard I had a garden he must see. He said that Kohl had been a gardener, and he would have been pleased to see what I had done. I felt very proud that day.

Now I feel that old man Kohl’s ghost must be feeling my pain. Once again I tackled the tall old Juniper stump covered with overgrown ivy. A perfect gardener would probably cut her down. As I pulled away the ivy I could begin to see the alcoves of the dead tree. They are perfect nesting places. I was reminded of a picture I took one year of a nesting Mourning Dove. The thought of baby birds keeps the old stump standing.

My conclusion at the end of today is that the blending of man and land is meant to go through different cycles and seasons. I’ll have to trust that God has a future plan.

 

 

 

My garden boots are on. My new head scarf holds my head. It keeps my hair in place.

Sun protection is smeared on my face, trying to keep the liver spots away.

All my other skin is covered with wind- proof clothes.

The wind whips around as all the weeds await. They all have had a reprieve for too long.

The entropy of age is letting the garden go astray.

The garden has only me to guide it into a more ordered state.

I can’t neglect the place that has given me so much in return.

The red camellia is full of blooms that now are showing signs of age.

The big old lilac is holding up scented clusters, and has new growth at its feet.

The hellebores are consistently dependable, even though their neighbors need improvement.

The PJM rhododendron was one of the founding shrubs. Its flowers are calling my attention now.

The big eared pig I bought last year has weathered the winter well, and sits among dry stems and weeds.

The row of peonies along the fence are on their way, preparing for a late May show.

The pale pink honeysuckle still holds its ground against the obnoxious privet.

The laurel hedge around the deck needing pruning for it shows the wear and tear of winter.

The young fothergilla is a rather new addition. A slow grower that needs a patient gardener. Finally, it is putting on a little fan-fare.

The gurgling sound of the pond fountain is urging me on.  “Take control”, it whispers.

 

After all is said and done at the end of each day a tiredness pulls the curtain closed.

No more conscious thoughts, no more one-on-ones, my inner voice grows silent.

A deep slumber gives my spirit a rest, drifting through my mind’s detritus, sweeping it away.

After hours of peace and resolution, a feeling of refreshment can revitalize my soul.

I start with a new day and a new mind-set.

New problems will arise since this is what life entails.

Yet, I still feel blessed to be given a new chance each and every day to make a difference in someone else’s life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A look out the window fills my heart with Spring anticipation.

The bright yellow forsythia and neon daffodils

Are megaphones for the vitality of Earth.

The scene is disturbed by a single plastic bag.

An insider tossed out in the wind.

Its fate got stuck in the bare limbs of a tree.

This plastic flag is a reminder of the carelessness of man.

As the wind increases and all the limbs and flowers sway…

This insider fills with air and begins to sing.

It too must feel the joy of Spring.

The small feathered  birds scampering around feel the excitement

And they begin to sing along.

I watch it all with fascination and I can see the viral spread of Spring

Is in the air. (Unstoppable.)