movingforwardslowly

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.)

 

The magic and mania left me in 2018. My hopes for 2019 are to find a better sense of balance, to work towards a less distracted mind, and to continue to seek out more optimistic humor. These hopes are not only for me. They are also my hopes for everyone around me.

There were times in 2018 when I felt like a mere conduit for someone else’s words. These words came to me spontaneously without effort or editing. It was as if I was tapping into an external creative flow. My hopes for 2019 are to find a creative flow that feels like my own. I also hope to find the patience and determination to work at finding the right words to better express my thoughts.

My heart is still looking for the right story to tell. My hope is that I will find it this year.

Update– Today is June 24, 2024. I wanted to delete this post but decided it accurately represented my feelings at that time. However, my life has changed, and I have changed since I wrote the words above. Sometimes, I still enjoy writing, though it is usually done to record something in my life I want to record. I am beginning to read again over the past month or so. I went through a dry spell where I did not feel like reading any book. I would scan over the news and read here and there. I have been making significant progress in my personal life, and I am moving past a very strange time that started around the time of my parent’s death. Time can heal our souls if we remain open to new things. Things do have a tendency to cycle back, so I am not ruling anything out at this point.

The songs we choose to sing weave together the fabric of our lives.

Everything we say and do creates the song. We can’t edit our lives.

We can change its course, speed, and tone as we move along.

The feelings we share permeate throughout our songs.

Each of us has our own song we sing.

An equal society brings together all our songs to create the chorus of life.

When songs of hate outnumber the songs of love the chorus is doomed.

Love does not constantly look at the bottom line; it hopes to chase the high notes.

Love songs don’t need words to convey a feeling of love; our actions weave the melody.

In any public forum the feelings expressed by each individual’s song influences the tone and mood and can cause a viral spread.

Society’s song can be altered when hate is allowed to dominate or when love is allowed to flourish.

Both feelings compete for our attention.

My hope is that by working on the ground I can influence the songs of our youth.

These will ultimately shape the song of our future.

My hope is that more love will flow and hate will dry up.

 

 

 

Bridges have been on my mind these days.

Our country has fractured. There is one big divide.

Each side has further divisions.

Voices scramble to be heard, each hoping to demonize the other side.

Those struggling to be open and neutral are now being shamed into taking sides.

This is all happening across our media waves.

On the ground there are families struggling to raise children in this climate of hate.

Marriages  are hoping to bridge the divide, as gender differences have been magnified.

I don’t know the solution to this problem.

I keep hoping this pattern of hate can be transformed.

Love is needed, however, love is now viewed as a weakness.

How did this happen?

I want to run and hide and put my fingers in my ears.

The noise is so loud now; this no longer works.

The heat rises. Tempers flare. The cool comfort of reason is being erased.

I will vote, though in my divided household, no gain will be achieved.

Going Home

Going home can mean a return to God. I learned this over two decades ago when my  father-in-law, Walter, expressed this desire before he died.

More commonly it means a return to a dwelling place in the living world filled with family and friends.

It can also mean in a more general sense, a return to something familiar and long-standing.

I was intrigued by Kenny G’s use of a lone dancer in the performance of his song: Going Home.

The dancer’s interpretation is a celebration of self, and a celebration of life that overflows with self-confidence.

Life and death can both mean “Going Home”, depending on one’s perspective.

Both can bring peace.