Winter blues

Poor little moth must take shelter.  Hope he chooses a tough winter plant!

My garden, which is most definitely my muse, is in a state of sadness and resignation. This is a grieving process endured each autumn as its close friends and acquaintances leave or begin their long sleep. 

For now it will not be consoled. With each browning stem and dropping, unspent, tardy bud, the garden sheds a tear, eliciting my sympathy to no end. To us both, spring seems an eternity away. No amount of well-meaning empathy from those around us seems to help. We know the leaves are lovely in their dying colours, and yes it's lovely to see the grass greening again, but we know of the long days ahead with little daylight and even less life-affirming new growth.

We do acknowledge that a rest is in order after a long season of production and performance, so give us a little time and we too will appreciate our winter hibernation as we are meant to do.  We will welcome our local little hummingbirds, and their life-sustaining little bug snacks, and a few winter berries will be there to focus on.  Before you know it, dear garden, your nurturing soils will throng with well-rested baby bulbs, and bugs bursting from their beds.

So when my garden and I are done with this seasonal funk, we will focus on those little victories of nature; the rosebud that somehow demurely peeps out from its protected spot against the house, and the tough little snapdragon sheltering some tiny creature that has chosen such a precarious champion.

Wait, what a stunning beautyberry next door! Tiny bunches of purple balloons cling in crowds all along the bush's stems! I must get one for my garden. That will brighten up my dear muse.

Ah yes.  There is still beauty after all this winter.

somebody is hiding in this suspended leaf.

Wind

Wind driven waves

Wind had been tempting me since I awoke, rushing in swirls about the garden and rustling the hydrangea against the window to get my attention. Now as I stepped outside, it roughly embraced me like an excited child.

I was pushed and pulled along the street by its enthusiasm, past the lone brave seagull at the beach who dared his aerial feats in the stronger than usual currents.
We reached the trail with a grand entrance of maple leaves dancing in the crescendo of giant gusts. I dug my feet in and felt my hair leap about my head in abandon, Wind grabbing and tussling it with zealous roughness.
My rain hat had been relegated to hang from a belt loop moments after entering into this realm, and now it battered about my hip furiously, trying to escape to join the maelstrom.
I waded through piled and piling leaves and debris, blinking and wincing at Wind's efforts to throw bits at me, snowball-style. But I was up to the challenge. A poke in one eye by a helpless maple leaf wasn't going to dull this heart-racing liveliness for me. I strode on, one eyed, not about to miss a moment while recovering. Bring it on.
Further along Wind threw fists of leaves against the trail's fence, delighting in their tumble. Quickly bored, it turned its attention next to roiling a swath of resting leaves into a whirlywind; but before I could dash it like a child kicking a sandcastle, its short attention span was off.  It clamoured up a nearly naked tree, wedging leaves into gaps and pulling remaining holdouts from their twigs. Those stalwarts didn't stand a chance, and grudgingly let their grasp go, leafy fingertips no match for Wind's muscley pull.
Now fully sighted again, I swept along, a part of Wind by now, fully abandoned to its whims; a willing accomplice. We caught and threw leaves, ran in circles, and breathed in relishing gasps.
A small songbird careened drunkenly past my head and into a thick thicket's safety, to the cheers of its fellow refugees.
Too quickly our tryst was over, Wind's and mine, and I reluctantly left its domain at the front door. Thank you, Wind, for that delicious moment in time.

brave seagull

Ferry Arrival

Beautiful BC Ferries

I love the ferry arrivals lounge.  The temporary inhabitants wait around with all manner of emotions carried in their body language and facial expressions.

One will be grasping a big bouquet of cheerful flowers, who are straining to present their most gleeful of faces to their recipient. 

Another may be wringing her hands in anticipation of a tearful reunion.  Was there a tragedy, and her emotions are on the brink of tumbling out the moment their eyes meet?  Or has it been so long the anticipation is coursing out to her extremities, barely contained within her skin.

Then there is the guy who would rather be anywhere else, pacing and glaring around, trying to talk himself into the necessary smile of greeting.

But the very best moments are when the arrivals door slams open and spews hurrying passengers, each with their own agenda, infusing the atmosphere with whirling individual dramas swirling about them, seeking out their matching, waiting people.

A small child may shoot out from the line, bounding into the arms of grandma. Squealing may erupt from both as their joy bursts about them.  I would look around and see the infectious smiles as this purity of love spreads its kisses far and wide.

I have seen and experienced meetings that tear me apart. Two devastated souls melting into each other's arms, sobbing their grief. For a split second time stops as the grievers re-start their hearts with each other's strength.  Painfully breathing in and out again, they will make their way through the crowd.  Life goes on.

But next may be a shriek of joy.  Someone will spot their person and all that contained patience will electrify the room.  Arms wide, bodies will clutch in perfectly fitted embrace, mutual glee wrapped up in their entwined grip and whole-body smiles.

I inhale those last emotions, borrowing them to use in future when I have a low moment.  They will remind me of the finer flashes in life; those oases between desert stretches of blah.  The arrivals lounge and its undercurrents is one of those secret stores of humanity, quite wasted unless you vicariously allow the moments into your own psyche. 

After all, aren’t we all as one in the human condition?

Sluggish Slug

I call her Lush.  Much prettier than using a slug picture first!

It was a performance worthy of a snake-charmer's cobra.  In slow motion the slug sloped its neck from side to side, contorting its length into a writhing "s" shape. The flanges flanking its muscular body tensed wing-like in an effort to add just another centimetre to its scope of vision. The periscoped eye stalks zig-zagged back and forth, Monty Python-like, as it strained to find a viable option out of the mess it found itself in.

From its vantage point on top of the railroad tie that edges a garden bed, the slug eased its way down the wood, sliming a path with precious moisture it hoped to replace in short order. It must seek a damp destination before it ran out of mucus.

My impartiality was short-lived. I realized the poor thing really was in a life or death struggle. I eased the slug down to the cool grass in the shade of the wood. Some nature photographer I am turning out to be!

I am reminded of another recent weak moment. Two slugs were writhing in agony as they dried on the porch cement, trapped when the runoff from planter-watering evaporated. I felt guilty, having unintentionally lured them out of their usual routine.  I watered them down and moved them to a shady spot, where I kept a watering vigil until they were recovered.

Their real purpose in life is to aggravate me by chewing on the best of my flowers.  The routine is that they choose the most perfect blooms to destroy and I catch them to return them to the compost pile, which they escape, and we repeat the cycle.

Nevertheless, this torture demanded a truce. We can get back to the cat and mouse game later.

Looking positively grumpy at this point.

sticky slime is running out.

Getting ready to stretch again.

Feeling Waspish

A wasp hunting

Ah the much maligned wasp.  Her reputation precedes her wherever she goes. Her temper is infamous, yet few of us know her rather noble purpose.

An unsung hero, she diligently scours the most fragile of flowers for enemy aphids, scooping them off like a valiant gladiator.

She can be seen carrying her prey to destinations unknown to devour it in privacy.  Across the garden she flies, like a helicopter, her long black legs woven about her captive like a cargo basket below her.

I, like everyone else, instinctively give wasps a wide berth of course. They are liable to lash out at us even for simply being in their space!  But we have to think of them as trained henchmen on steroids.  Without that constant fighting urge they couldn't do their job.  And quite frankly I have been stung far more times by busy, comparatively gentle bees. They are slower and less aware of clumsy humans, so can be taken by surprise with a misplaced footstep or handhold.

Not so the diligent wasp. She is a veritable fighting machine, well aware of our every move. If she chooses to nip us for a taste, she is totally prepared to also wallop us with a sting or two if we protest!

So next time you feel it your duty to rid yourselves of her presence, remember her usefulness in the garden, but do give her a wide berth!

The ant had better watch out!

Nobody enjoys the birdbath more.

Water Metropolis

Family and friends boat trip – River Thames – 1961.  Michaela 6 years old.  My penchant for living in the moment has early roots.  Here is an excerpt from my book…

On a summer afternoon, Michaela and Gary found themselves floating in the softly lapping water of the River Thames.  Gary quickly drifted off to sleep with his air mattress rubbing against Michaela’s, and the slowly eddying currents sandwiched her mattress between the boat and Gary.  She felt an intense sense of safety and peace.  Voices droned from the adults on shore.  She could distinguish her mother’s raucous laugh and picture her theatrical movements.  The side of Michaela’s face lay wetly molded into the pillow.  Her senses were alive. The potent smell of rubber, punctuated conversations drifting overhead, and lapping water on the bow of the GayMic, all lulled her into a comfortable little universe of her own.  Hands dangled in the cool current, eventually she inched herself forward to afford a better view below her suspended bed.

Immediately her arms flew out of the water and her mood was instantly broken as her little heart tried to explode out of her chest.  There was some sort of underwater spider down there that may as well have been an attacking monster!  She gingerly lay back down as close to the middle of the air mattress as possible, but curiosity demanded she keep peering into this new world.

As Michaela leaned over, a small metropolis came into existence.  Tiny schools of fish twisted this way and that in synchronized dance.  On the bottom, more darting spiders went about their business, intricately tap-dancing around one another.  Out of focus, something scurried by right under her nose.  She shifted her head back a few inches to clear her view, and spotted some sort of insect that was walking right on top of the water.  Its little feet only dented the surface as it scurried on its impossible journey, the indentations appearing like enlarged clown shoes.  The closer she looked, the more she saw.  Totsy little shrimpy things scissored their way around, grasping at reeds by body-hugging them with all their legs, then flinging themselves back off to the next reed.  In the muddy bottom little swirls of muck were mixed with legs and fins, their owners going about their business otherwise unseen.   

Gary suddenly woke, and Michaela’s peaceful mien was too much for him.  He roughly grabbed the side of her air mattress and hoisted it over, dumping his shrieking, sputtering sister into what she knew was a heavily colonized river.  Horrified, she scrambled up the bank and ran screaming over to her mum, convinced she must be covered in insects

Everybody Has A Story

Some people are easy to read if you tune in closely. There is a woman we frequently see on our daily walk. Her story floats around her as she breezes by. I can tell it is an absorbing story because she has a perpetually distracted demeanour. When I hail her she is always slightly startled, as though she is quite astonished she was visible. She used to walk her little dog, one that wore goggles to protect it from the sun, and a special coat to help its much-loved little body stay warm. 

The day she lost that friend we happened upon her, all alone for the first time. She was sobbing, so I didn't ask, I just wound my arms about her to give her some warmth of understanding.  After a moment she seemed a little buffered, the infusion of sharing pumping just a little continuity into her loss. I've seen her since, her story just a little deeper, but carrying on.

Today she wore a stylish black hat, a sleek black pant outfit, and her growing acceptance. I told her she looked lovely, and of course she shook herself out of her reverie to acknowledge my interest with her usual disconcerted surprise, but there was a shy pleasure in the moment for her.

It was also a pleasure for me to share her story just briefly.  We walked on as I enjoyed one of those moments of sheer joy, contemplating the gift that random kindness bestows on us. 

Tea For Me

My mouth waters at the very prospect.  A perfect cup of tea is a work of art, and it's beauty definitely lies in the eyes of the beholder.  For me the secret ingredients are the right creamy milk and the exact strength to color it just so. In the morning I wake up to my first thought- the tea I am about to enjoy. 

My dearest friend, who happens to be my husband, will deposit my elixir from the heavens at my bedside upon hearing my waking rustle.

I will carefully clear a space on my night table in anticipation.  The kettle slowly rumbles to a bubbling crescendo, and I follow the sounds of his morning movements.  The cup clunks to the counter as the cupboard door slaps shut. A thunk of the tea caddy lid, and the spoon diving into my cup to perform its washer-like agitation that teases the essence from my tea bag.  Then the fridge door will thunk, and the jug of milk will release just the right amount of milk as he stirs vigorously to insist on the correct proportions.  Then the slurp of a chef testing his creation, and voila!

That first sip paints a smile on my sleepy lips.  The cascade of creamy tea washes my awakening body with well-being, and sets me on my way to a new day. 

With a start like this to my day is there any wealth in the world that can compete?

Even tea on a cruise

Ant Party

See her bottoms up at the sweet nectar?

I must be honest...I am not keen on ants, although I respect them as the cleanup crew of the garden. They haul away tons of detritus every day and stash it in those underground labyrinths they inhabit. But they have a universal weakness- their collective sweet tooth.

If you have never witnessed them gorging as though at a trough, have a look at the pictures here. There was a spill of sweet pop that had dried in the sun into a small oblong of stickiness. Then an ant discovered it, stuck her head in and didn't come up for air at all! Soon another ant joined her, then another, until there must have been 20 around the perimeter, sucking away as though from a vat filled with an intoxicant.

None of the usual handshakes took place, where they touch antennae and kiss both cheeks of each other to pass along secrets.  I think the first ant must have made such a to-do with her mmm's and ah's that the others heard her a mile away.

They made short work of it, and before I knew it, the entire spill site was spotless, and they continued about their business, party time over, their sweet fix satisfied for now.  Back to the junk-hauling business they went.   Some to drag a dead wasp up and down every blade of grass in their path, others to take on tiny caterpillars from the ash tree.  Their prey can be way bigger than them but their tenacity is amazing.

Still, one totsy little ant crawling on my skin causes a knee-jerk reaction.   So as long as they keep their distance, they are welcome to carry on!  Literally!  Go ahead and double dip at the local sweet spill, ants. I will be content to take your picture from a respectable distance.

greetings

Junk hauling

See?  At the trough.

Rescue Me

At the end of each summer I am obligated to take in a certain number of refugee plants.  I am speaking of those rejected, less than perfect leftovers that slipped through the cracks like so many wayward human characters who wind up homeless. 

Also like their human counterparts these sad specimens often only need one last break to make something of themselves.  This is where softies like me come in. I scour through the sale and freebie corners of our local hobbit-like garden shop and Inevitably their plaintive little poses catch my eye.

A collapsed pack of once-dainty dianthus will be lying on its face muttering that all it needs is a little plot of soil and a drink of water.  I will lift it closer and gently cup it in my hand to see if there really is any hope, and that's when the plant will lay it on thick. A wilted arm will dangle exposing one beautiful baby bud, fated to meet an unfulfilled destiny. I'm sure the dianthus sneaks a one-eyed peek from under its flopped leaf, at my tearful reaction to its sneaky strategy, because the minute I pop it onto my tray of ragtag adoptees it seems to miraculously recover enough to jostle for space with its future garden-mates.

But I'm not completely naive. Even if it only recovers by next spring we both win. The outcome can be eternal loyalty and extreme success, so grateful my adoptees seem to become.

In fact even as I write, some of the subjects of this essay are blowing me kisses and smiling adoringly up at me.  Ah I love my garden.

Pinks (Dianthus) are great edible flowers

This little one is still lying down, but already perking up.

Solidly on its feet, this one will be a grateful beauty!

Dianthus peeking out from behind alyssum

Love Mine Anenome

Proud double anenome!

Tightly pursed lips have met me for weeks as this late summer show-off bided its time.  Now one morning it has unfurled with a "ta-dah!"  The clumps of anenome have grown into lush bushes in spite of their more sparse habit.  They are the envy of the neighbourhood with such voluminous buds and blooms.

Perfection to the bees.

Bright, white, splayed petals stretch like a small trampoline on each bloom, strongly supported by their tough, thick little stems.  People are posing with these starlets for the usual photo shoots.  

Full bloom grabbing the all the attention.

Little do these admiring fans know what a Matahari anenome can be.  She quietly sends her shoots beneath the ground to secretly sidle up within other unsuspecting plants, shooting for height and strength before I can discover her.  On her distracting canopy she performs her siren magic, and below she plots her takeover.

Give her enough rein and she will overwhelm you with her presence, but I know my wild-child's thinking.  I diligently keep an eye out for her sneaky arms to pop up in someone else's space.  She is held in close quarters, and her response is to fling herself upwards to seek freedom and space on my terms.

I reward her with water, a gentle word now and then, and ample support for her heightened aerials.  Well done, my beauties.  Now let's see what your new cousins, the double flowered anenomes can come up with!

And here is her competition - the Double Anenome!

See her taut trampoline-like petals?

A Snail's Place

Lucky snail dropped by a bird - intact

We came across it while inspecting one morning, my granddaughter and I; a forlorn little snail calling from the top of a recently cut stem of spiderwort.  It had apparently dropped from the sky into this alien landscape of tall inedible stalks.  The spiderwort lives in an old bottomless washtub, segregated for its own good.  This way it avoids my manhandling its extra growth, and it can leap upwards as it grows at will.

Anyway poor snail was making a herculean effort to reach another stalk, twisting its long, lithe body at all angles for that one more centimetre.  Little eye stalks popped in and out at the effort like the slide of a trumpet.  It was practically cross-eyed as it tried to focus on its next step.   What fortitude the little fellow had, (although strictly speaking, they are all hermaphrodites).   At great risk of being plucked from his precarious perch by another flying predator, he soldiered on, clutching stalks of spiderwort by stretching on his tippy toe.  His house wiggled back and forth, almost unbalancing him with these acrobatics.

We finally couldn’t stand the tension any longer, and I gently tugged him off, causing his little body to shrivel all the way into his shell, tentacles sucked in.  He was covering his ears and eyes like a little kid who didn’t want to look.  I deposited him on some still-crisp leaves freshly added to the compost.

Gone are the days I committed genocide on snails and slugs.  I now realize they have immense use in my little ecosystem.  As plants finish their lifespan little slugs and snails like my new friend begin their job, clearing the landscape for the next batch of new growth.  Their downfall is their enthusiasm, which inevitably leads to forbidden fruit so to speak.  They are consigned to the compost as I find them, although I suspect I am deporting repeat offenders more often than not.

Don't forget to click on the pictures for a good close up.  They seem to have grumpy mouths too!