Thursday, August 18, 2016

A Garden Autobiography of What Really Matters ~ Dedicated to Allison Grace


There is a power to place when you allow where you live to embrace you.

'Amistad' Salvia, part of the Sunset Garden Collection, established in less than a season 
It is not so telling from whence forebears arrived. The framed certificates of recognition and diploma in my study are not nearly so important as that the plot of land my husband fell in love with because the surrounding chaparral  "smells like vacation."  The house was nearly incidental, except that it came with a 3 car garage. 

This place we live, sculpted the meaning of my existence. 

This geranium, one of several purchased from Greenwood  Daylily Gardens is a prolific horticultural 'brood mare'
Mine is not a designer's garden. It is a family garden which evolved, only partly by plan. It is an authentic reflection of who we were, and are ever becoming.  

Along the way, we learned mortal plans are held back by conscious thoughts.  What brought me to cherish this place was not the execution of plans. Deep connection was wrought from the vision and effort required to merge our personal visions of Eden, and make them real. 

There is a compelling collected energy born of hearts joining  hands with possibility.  Man is not inherently the enemy of the natural world. Fight or accept this- people are as much a part of nature as a smile is on a child's face.

A happy mistake- The orange tecoma- I didn't know it would grow to the size of the crepe myrtle- but our neighbors above prefer this view to our trash cans. 
The side yard which holds the line of  trash barrels is a happy place. It isn't just the color WOW of pink and orange- within the blossoms is a choir of birds cheerfully filling the morning airwaves until the sun leads them to siesta. The ambiance bids me to eagerly take out the trash. Really. 


My garden is not filled with things, so much as it overflows with loving memories. 

When my mother could no longer maintain her ode to the childhood jungle she crafted, her soul needed something of the garden to have with her in assisted living.  She never had a garden arch- so we re purposed this Charleston-style gateway into her headboard.  This made her happy.  

Early mornings,  as the inky-sky lightens behind the silhouette of dove, I feel her presence. Death did not separate her gardening heart from those she inspired. It lives on in the clippings, rhizomes and plants she passed on. 


I don't know that I have ever known a day here without bees.  This week they decided that  the signature abundant variety of  hospitality means they are welcome to raid this hummingbird feeder. 

Milkweed = Monarchs
Butterflies are the inner-child of the garden. Their calling, to pollinate the garden, is subliminal, subservient to joyful gymnastics. They dance. Flirt, Rest. Cocoon. Then reemerge to inspire us to carry on with our duties. With lightness, beauty and grace.


This post is dedicated to Allison Grace. My niece's life here was too brief. But while she was here, she taught everyone who knew her about making love THE priority.  

Linking to May Dreams Gardens GBBD (Garden Bloggers Bloom Day.

Until we meet again, 

Lydia 

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