Pollenatrix

Foundation plants

One of the things that makes me smile is the older generation's attachment to foundation planting. The traditional suburban variety -- cypress and cedar and other assorted evergreens marching in a stiff row, disciplined into tortured balls that grow into ridiculous oversized balls over the years, and dotted with solitary annuals standing guard at their bloated feet.

It gives me the urge to initiate some guerilla gardening. Like rip out the steadily inflating bubbles of shrub and turn that foundation planting into something that looks like this:

Garden Makeovers

Trees

It's another sad day with the loss of a beloved friend's mother, the ache made keener by the need to honour a difficult request. People react to grief in different ways, sometimes in ways that demand much of those who love us, turning sorrow into a test of a long friendship that must not fail.

I took a long walk tonight in the mature woods behind my home. Something about the old trees did much to soothe me, the solidity of the trunks, the knuckles of roots plunging deep in the earth, the delicate whispering of leaves in the breeze. Rooted, strong, standing firm through difficult seasons and terrible storms.

A bird in hand

We keep our patio door wide open during these warm summer days, and the other morning a curious Blue Tit overshot the birdfeeder and landed right inside our living room. I didn't notice him until Jake stumbled by in his arthritic clumsiness; it put the little creature into a flutter and gave away his hiding place behind the curtain.

I put my hands out to catch him  and called a soft "psich psich" as I reached out, hoping to let him know that I meant no harm. It seemed to work. He calmed right down, and didn't object when I carefully cupped his fragile little body. But I was too concerned about hurting him; although he allowed me to handle him he quickly become impatient with my diffidence, and squirmed right out of my hands and onto my index finger. I straightened up in surprise and turned toward Laird with my little passenger; Laird's eyebrows shot up, and his eyes and mouth softened into an "awwwww...". I was pretty filled with awe myself. I turned again, walked out to the patio and sat down, and the little bird stayed on my finger for a full five minutes. Laird and I chuckled at the little fellow's interest in us, he looked me up and down and stared me in the eye, and swivelled his head to study Laird quite thoroughly too. I was utterly charmed. Finally, reluctantly, the little fellow flew off into the bushes.

I often wonder now whether this bird now recognizes me when I step out the door, but I'm sure we humans all look alike to him. And more confusingly, we change our plumage every morning. How's a bird to know who'se who? 

Comfort amid the green growing things

A friend of mine passed away yesterday, far too young and not at all willing. He was diagnosed with cancer back in October and given 3 months to live, but he was determined to see another birthday. Norm succeeded in going out on his own terms and passed away on July 27th, his 48th birthday.

I'm not sure what this has to do with gardening, except that it's out here - sitting amid green growing things - that I am comforted. Things grow, things die, and if left to nature's careful handling, every part of it contributes to the regeneration of a soil that will support a new season of growth. Norm was quite pragmatic, describing his lot as "survival of the fittest". But it's not that way, not really. Everything that grows and blooms is better because of what came before.

Friends are like that too.

Rest in peace, Norm. I won't forget you.