I walked through the gardens today while the dew lay fresh on the meadow (I could never refer to this green carpet as lawn or even grass – the wildflowers/weeds dot the blanket of spongy green with such abandon that no self respecting gardener would dare name it lawn). My bejeweled flip-flops sparkled as my hem wicked up the dampness. The fresh cool morning air signaled another cool day . . . and I rejoiced.
The heady rose perfume suffused the air with such potency that my mind swirled and I felt taken up with visions of piles of petals, like fallen leaves, ripe and ready for jumping into. (Surely that dream has also occurred to some other rose-lover save only me.) I would be loathe to sacrifice the blooms for the gathering, but what fun to dream about it.
Just yesterday I came across this proverbial saying:
Never Let Your Memories Outnumber Your Dreams
So true . . . to which I would lately add:
Never Let Your Fears Overshadow the Promises of God
The days strung together to form weeks have so much joy laced within the hours, and as the sun moves the shadows grow and shrink. I have spent the better part of the last few days cultivating my joys much as I cultivate my flower gardens. Each time I venture into my gardens I stand amazed at the colors and textures and leafy differences each blooming beauty holds. I prize David Austin’s English Roses above all else for the fragrance and form and sheer hardiness that keeps them dancing in my garden in full fancy dress from one season to the next. Rarely do I find a bush without bud or blossom. The hedge of roses encircling my decking sunk roots to soil in my gardens only last Spring, yet have bloomed three or four times in succession already and show no signs of slowing down.
“Pictures?” you ask. “Do you have photos to share?”
Ah, my sweet friends I don’t, as I found myself out amongst the beauty without bulky camera in hand. It seemed counter-productive to hasten back into the house, possibly catching sight of the dishes piled high in the sink or the laundry spilling from the chute waylaying this Joy-seeker from her task toward joyful observances, breaking the magical spell of freedom and limitless horizon for soaking in the memorable and the dreams all at once. So, I gambled that you would enjoy “word pictures” spun from my memory just as much as a snapped moment; thus I babble on.
A trip to the chicken lands boosted my ego as they ran to greet me, roosters tripping and stumbling in their ego-filled way as they strove to be first to choose from the lot of goodies. Yes, dear friends, we have nurtured two roosters. Bossy Bob and Dapper Dan (we just couldn’t find a way to amend Miss Priss appropriately for the newly-revealed gender) crow each morning to bring up the sun and prance around in the daylight hours, showing off the most glorious black-green-purple-blue feathered sheen. They are regal looking until they stumble or slide on gangly feet and tip from over-developed breasts (and under-developed brains, I surmise).
I never imagined I would fall under the spell of chickens, let alone goofy roosters. But, yes . . . I admit to being smitten over their antics and foibles and silly, silly ways. Sadly there cannot be two roosters with four hens and thus Dapper Dan has been chosen to find another accommodation. Being my favorite by a LONG shot (I know, I have broken all the homesteading rules about naming and petting a meal component), I choose not to think about what the next few months may hold for this dopey guy. For today it shall be enough to giggle and guffaw over the prancing and dancing of a flock of fowl. Watching them wrestle over the smattering of cherry tomatoes and watermelon rinds, I make a mental note to find six bad tomatoes next time, as a mere four red balls has made for a most exciting game of catch-me-if-you-can, but also resulted in someone pecking another in frustration over the competition for red foods (their favorites). Did I mention that a hen did the pecking to a rooster? Oh how funny this topsy-turvey world of feathered folk has proven to be.
But enough of chickens and weedy meadows and even roses, for my middle girl has just finished The Story of Painting by the Jansons, a wonderfully informative survey of the history of painting (you probably guessed that, didn’t you?), and requires my computer for a French lesson. Her diligence astonishes me; regardless of the weather, momentum of the day, or temper of her spirit, Miss Lydia completes all schoolwork and music practice without delay (except when I hog the needed laptop). Would that all of my children operated so . . .
Aaaaaahhhhhhh, I wish you could hear the beautiful harp music that now fills the air, as Lydia has switched out French Lesson for Harp practice. It sounds as I imagine Heaven must sound.
And so my mind floats again to the dreaminess that comes so naturally to the woman who swims through this blog making ripples for others to see. Those ripples felt like splashes of a drowning woman recently as I wrestled so with fears and concerns over my own issues and those of the many that I love (some only through virtual channels). Today’s reading of Psalm 20 rests in my heart and mind like a sweet lozenge of comfort and healing. My trials have not washed away, nor have those of others, but the hope and promises of my Lord and Father have comforted my aching heart and smoothed my worried brow, setting me to play in a garden of such splendor that only His mighty hands could have fashioned. I may dig holes, add water, prune off the faded, and plan for the beauty, but only He holds the key to sending the power that sets it all awash in color and fragrance and heady fun.
This respite Wednesday I bid you laugh and celebrate the dreams of our heart that only a Father’s love can make come true. Miracles happen every day . . . as evidenced by that hummingbird I just espied drinking deeply from a geranium I inherited from an aged gardener who resided by the temperate coast, which has not only adapted to my chilly mountain air, but flourished and bloomed for five years thus far! I cannot conjure a miracle, but God can do anything He chooses – even keep an annual flower for my zone in bloom for years to nourish the migrating hummingbirds. He really does keep His eye on all things of this earth.
With that I shall bid farewell as I happily dance away to continue playing in His daycare (and will continue to rest peacefully in the shadows of His nightcare wings).
A trip to the chicken lands boosted my ego as they ran to greet me, roosters tripping and stumbling in their ego-filled way as they strove to be first to choose from the lot of goodies. Yes, dear friends, we have nurtured two roosters. Bossy Bob and Dapper Dan (we just couldn’t find a way to amend Miss Priss appropriately for the newly-revealed gender) crow each morning to bring up the sun and prance around in the daylight hours, showing off the most glorious black-green-purple-blue feathered sheen. They are regal looking until they stumble or slide on gangly feet and tip from over-developed breasts (and under-developed brains, I surmise).
I never imagined I would fall under the spell of chickens, let alone goofy roosters. But, yes . . . I admit to being smitten over their antics and foibles and silly, silly ways. Sadly there cannot be two roosters with four hens and thus Dapper Dan has been chosen to find another accommodation. Being my favorite by a LONG shot (I know, I have broken all the homesteading rules about naming and petting a meal component), I choose not to think about what the next few months may hold for this dopey guy. For today it shall be enough to giggle and guffaw over the prancing and dancing of a flock of fowl. Watching them wrestle over the smattering of cherry tomatoes and watermelon rinds, I make a mental note to find six bad tomatoes next time, as a mere four red balls has made for a most exciting game of catch-me-if-you-can, but also resulted in someone pecking another in frustration over the competition for red foods (their favorites). Did I mention that a hen did the pecking to a rooster? Oh how funny this topsy-turvey world of feathered folk has proven to be.
But enough of chickens and weedy meadows and even roses, for my middle girl has just finished The Story of Painting by the Jansons, a wonderfully informative survey of the history of painting (you probably guessed that, didn’t you?), and requires my computer for a French lesson. Her diligence astonishes me; regardless of the weather, momentum of the day, or temper of her spirit, Miss Lydia completes all schoolwork and music practice without delay (except when I hog the needed laptop). Would that all of my children operated so . . .
Aaaaaahhhhhhh, I wish you could hear the beautiful harp music that now fills the air, as Lydia has switched out French Lesson for Harp practice. It sounds as I imagine Heaven must sound.
And so my mind floats again to the dreaminess that comes so naturally to the woman who swims through this blog making ripples for others to see. Those ripples felt like splashes of a drowning woman recently as I wrestled so with fears and concerns over my own issues and those of the many that I love (some only through virtual channels). Today’s reading of Psalm 20 rests in my heart and mind like a sweet lozenge of comfort and healing. My trials have not washed away, nor have those of others, but the hope and promises of my Lord and Father have comforted my aching heart and smoothed my worried brow, setting me to play in a garden of such splendor that only His mighty hands could have fashioned. I may dig holes, add water, prune off the faded, and plan for the beauty, but only He holds the key to sending the power that sets it all awash in color and fragrance and heady fun.
This respite Wednesday I bid you laugh and celebrate the dreams of our heart that only a Father’s love can make come true. Miracles happen every day . . . as evidenced by that hummingbird I just espied drinking deeply from a geranium I inherited from an aged gardener who resided by the temperate coast, which has not only adapted to my chilly mountain air, but flourished and bloomed for five years thus far! I cannot conjure a miracle, but God can do anything He chooses – even keep an annual flower for my zone in bloom for years to nourish the migrating hummingbirds. He really does keep His eye on all things of this earth.
With that I shall bid farewell as I happily dance away to continue playing in His daycare (and will continue to rest peacefully in the shadows of His nightcare wings).
Happy Respite Wednesday
