Blissed on My Butt

It's been awhile since I've sung any hymns.  Yesterday this old one sprang out of nowhere, drawn by the glorious bright orb in the clearest of blue overhead.  "Heavenly sunshine, heavenly sunshine, filling my soul with Glory Divine."  That's as far as my memory would take me, and that was enough. It was straight from heaven, no matter what your religious views, and it filled my soul, my heart and my body.  It was bliss.  You can tell we have been seriously missing the sun in Portland.

Gloriously healthy peony in its protective support

I was sitting on the earth making the beds of collected flowers, shrubs and various plants look prettier.  Some of you would call it weeding, but the emphasis and the spirit of my task is entirely different from the drudgery that is associated with that term.  I was taking my time and taking my time all at once.  It was bliss.  It doesn't get any better than this in the Things I get to do today--play in the earth, rearrange for my pleasure the beauty of these that grow, and bless each with my heart and love as they are seen and touched.

OMG (in the very best sense)

Shock and awe!  What to my wondering eyes did appear?  I discovered that the lovely twig cages used to protect perennial shoots from spring-loaded chicken feet were still very much alive.  They are sprouting leaves.  Next puzzle for Handy Andy:  plan for keeping the twig cages but not have them grow into vigorous variegated Dog Wood bushes around my favorite flowers!

Ghosts of Summer

It stood there nearly sheet white --actually it was a gentle buff color.  Glorious and perfect, but still so odd for a fern.  Honoring the elegance of summer turned fall--a ghostly slipping away of the vibrant green that proclaimed "alive"--is one of the Things I get to do today.

While away last week to my farm and forest roots, I stood stalk still for many minutes marveling at the hollow lack of color in the frond of a fern.  The tamaracks also leave green behind, but exchange it for a pale or vibrant gold depending on the angle of the sun.















In my own yard,  Fairy Bells are bleached by the chill of our colder nights, joining the ranks of the ghosts skulking out of the season.











Twigs, slender-red, cling loosely to the remaining wisps of Variegated Dogwood--slight vapors of the summer vine.

To all of you, thank you for your summer gift, your fall illusion and your promise in the coming spring.