Forget-Me-Not Thoughts

Forget-me-not blues. 

These have dotted my garden in years past, but they 

always seem to die out. Not in an ugly 

way--just not there when you look for them

in the spring. 

When I browsed hopeful rows of perennials this year, the 

sky blue and yellow color combination caught my eye. 

The plant name struck my heart and sealed the deal. 

"You're coming home with me." 

Do you ever whisper to your plants? 

Maybe we shouldn't admit such things.

The blooms are intricately crafted dainties, clustered 

in small bouquets. This would have been enough, 

but my macro lens revealed an extra bit of shareable beauty.

 Tiny yellow hearts ring the center, 

one heart for each petal.

In a season of home-goings, this plant spoke the 

exact language I needed to express a deluge 

of thoughts, emotions, and grief.

A backyard garden often reflects its keeper in this way. 

The gardener walks the rows and remembers--

these were Grandma's favorite flowers.

She spreads protective mulch and ponders--

I want to be tenacious like the tiger lilies.

In hottest July, she waters dry ground and nods along 

with the Master Gardener, whose plan is continually unfolding--

even to include a hydrangea blooming through a fence.

What reminders do the plants in your garden offer? 

What memories do they whisper at nightfall?

Do its citizens inspire any lofty ambitions? 

I'd love to know. 

Hope Tenders

 

January was bleak and quiet, a proper rest after months of holidays piling one 

on top of the next. A person can only eat so much sweet potato casserole*, even if 

the crumble topping is flawlessly crisp and thick.

February's unpredictable nature in this commonwealth may have you shoveling 

snow in your barn boots and sunbathing on the back porch in the same week. 

But as soon as January blows away from this Kentucky landscape, 

you'll find me peering under carpets of leaf mulch, looking for new garden growth. 

Already, the daffodils are inches above ground. 

Thyme plants (lemon and woolly) are greening up and nearly fragrant. 

Daylilies and irises, those workhorses, are 

pushing bold spikes of life above last year's litter.

And the star of February, the Lenten rose, is well on her way

 to making my heart content. Fragile pink blooms  

despite snow and freezing temps. It boggles the skeptical 

mind of this modern age. 

It's all about hope, isn't it? 

*

The sun will shine again, at its full strength.

* 

What we thought was long-gone might, against all odds, reappear. 

*

What seems dead really can become alive again. 

*

Gardeners are hope-tenders.

*Subscribe to my newsletter on Substack, and I'll send you my tried-and-true, much-requested sweet potato casserole recipe. The February installment of "Homeplaces" came out last week. Here's a link to take you there. Message me on Substack with your email address, and you'll have the recipe in time for Easter dinner. 

Garden Pointers

 

When I get a chance to go outside with my grands, they'll often hear me say, 

"Use your looking eyes."

 Of course, the teacher part of me can't resist adding even more instruction-- 

"Listen! Did you hear that?" 

"Touch this," or 

"Smell these..." 

You know--just your everyday kind of interacting with nature. 

But for me, the visual trumps all the other senses. 

Small wonders in my own backyard remind me of who I am in 

the grand scheme of life. Ordinary sights like this datura bloom point the way 

to the One who longs to welcome us home. 

My dear husband gifted me a macro lens for my recent birthday. 

Now I can get an even closer view of nature's small miracles, 

markers on the path of life. 

 

If you'd like to read more about HOME, I'm writing a newsletter on 

Substack. Click the link to take a peek. Subscribe for free to help 

this writer girl out. 

The newsletter focuses on practical ways to build an authentic home while 

heading toward our true home.  

I hope you enjoy it. 

The Building Team

Do not despise small beginnings. 

This divine encouragement came to Zerubbabel, the temple builder. 

Obviously, He wasn't talking about spring tulip spikes 

in Kentucky. But it's surely a gardener's verse too, for 

a gardener is also a builder, similar to good ol' 

Zerubbabel. 

We're all building something or other, isn't it true? 

I'm determined to be on the building team 

and not the tearing-down team.

Although when I have found myself wearing that 

ugly ocher jersey on occasion, I rip it 

off and move on as quickly as possible.

Here's a tiny splash of the glory that resulted from 

oh, so, small beginnings. 

Two more posts on small beginnings here and here. 

I'd love to hear about your small-beginnings project and how it's coming along.

 

Glimmers of Hope

By the time winter in Kentucky gasps its last breath, 

the world has gone all gray, brown, and tan. 

On a frosty February morning, no one is spared 

a full dose of gloom.

Our dogwood tree seems to have abandoned every hope.

Yet frost sparkles shine glimmers of hope

 into the murky morning, and an

 adventurous meadowlark reminds me

 that, against all odds, spring is on the way. 

Warm breezes will soon tickle their way through wide-open windows.

Every shade of green will pierce and push away dried-leaf blankets.

The sun will reach into new corners of my kitchen and make me 

consider spring cleaning.

And what seemed to be dead will come to life again.

Clive wasn't talking about the doubtful state of dogwood trees in February 

when he wrote to Mary Shelburne in 1963: 

"There are better things ahead than any we leave behind." 
 

But I think it still works.

Crazy Bouquet

Can you imagine a flower bouquet 

just on the brink of blooming? 

Imagine cutting and arranging a bountiful armful of 

almost-but-not-yet beauty.

Nearly-open sunflowers would complement daylilies, still zipped shut.

Almost unfurled fern fronds and barely blue hydrangeas could keep each other company.

Would it be crazy to give the gift of beauty 

without enjoying its fullness first?

To pass the highest enjoyment over to the recipient?

Well, that would be an extravagant gift, and yes ... 

maybe a little crazy.

 

A New Beauty

All dried up 

and beautiful in a new way.

The hard work of nodding in spring breezes complete,

sun-dried daffodils decorate a rusty toolbox. 

Parchment paper lily of the valley in blue glass 

bottles recall wedding bells and ivory veils.

Last year's weathered hydrangeas reveal an 

inner framework strong enough to make it through 

a long winter.

I signed a contract back in 2019 with Familius Publishers for a 

project about dogs and reading. The product has made a few twists and 

turns over the course of three years. Recently, I was notified that 

the final copy went to print. 

Teach Your Dog to Read will release this November! 

 

True Colors

 

Suddenly, fall is almost finished on our one Kentucky acre. 

This year's color change was slow to arrive, but just before they fell, 

the leaves put on a dazzling show of color. 

Just like every year, sunlight and 

temperature changes signaled chlorophyll to stop its work. 

And the greens of summer faded away while I was busy carving 

pumpkins and puzzling out costumes.

Without the influence of chlorophyll, 

what the leaves packed in during their spring-and-summer lives 

finally surfaced to create ...

... a grand spectacle of fall color pointing to the 

glorious nature of a wise and extravagant Creator. 

* photo taken on a Smoky Mountain getaway

It might be a life lesson, whispered to anyone  

with an ear to hear. 

Consider the Lilies

It's been a summer of the richest blooms. 

This year, I watched for the last daylily bloom 

and made sure to admire and enjoy it. 

Of course, lots of years have passed in which 

I didn't notice or care that the daylilies 

were almost gone, and I certainly 

didn't take note of the last one. 

Surely we rejoice that we have a
hope-filled future, brimming with 
unimagined amazements and 
exceeding great joy. 

But looking forward to these doesn't cancel 

the wisdom of savoring what's before us in the now. 

So consider the lilies in your life—savor and enjoy. 

This may be wisdom born of years, friends . . .

since I'll be fifty-five this year, 

I can say things like this. 

For a picture book that will drive 
home the message and maybe 

give you a good cry, check out 

Let Me Hold You Longer by Karen Kingsbury. 

Have tissues at the ready. 

Bring the Sky Inside

It's November's last day, but I still have a bit of summer in my kitchen. 

When my stubborn, spoiled morning glory vines wouldn't bloom, 

I searched for answers. 

One helpful gardener noted that she cut almost-blooming 

vines to bring indoors. Contained in a vase and 

positioned in a sunny window--they bloomed.

Of course, I had to try this. 

  From my pile of Heavenly Blue vines, I trimmed a long tangle

covered with buds still tight and tiny. They fit easily in a 

glass vase and hung happily from a cup hook in the window sill. 

In no time at all, pointed swirls of bloom emerged and finally opened. 

Every morning, newly vibrant blooms greet me. 

It's been the highlight of a fairly dismal gardening season.

The Heavenly Blues are almost finished now. 

It's time for Christmas colors to take center stage.

 

Hurry Along

Pumpkins and gourds appeared around here early this year. 

I've been hurrying around seasonal corners, trying to finish 2020 early. 

It's similar to pushing an entire helping of 

elementary-school-cafeteria 

spinach/succotash/peas into your mouth at once 

so you'll be allowed to go to recess.

Anybody?

 The side benefit of buying early was surprisingly simple--selection.

Summer clingers like me don't usually enjoy this advantage. 

Pumpkins and gourds of all shapes, colors, and sizes were still 

sitting pretty in the supermarket bins. 

 And they all still had stems. 

It was a cheap grocery-store thrill, the perfect way to hurry 2020 along. 

I planted a whole packet of heavenly blue morning glories this spring and 

pampered them all summer with regular watering and fertilizing. 

I made sure they were in high-quality soil with leaf mulch 

topdressing to retain moisture. 

It's past mid-October with one frost already 

on the books ... but not a single sky-blue bloom. 

Yards and yards of vine sporting tiny bud sets--and no blooms. 

This isn't the first time it's happened, but it was the most disappointing. 

My eyes couldn't have been more eager for those heavenly blues to show. 

Because ... 2020.

Garden Lesson: 

Turns out, pampering the vines is the downfall of blooms. 

The plant is so blissfully comfortable that it produces lush foliage instead of 

beautiful blooms. And there will be no fruit to produce seeds, the result 

of a pollinated blossom. 

***

That, friends, is worth pondering, especially if 

you're a comfort-seeking soul like me. It's my takeaway 

lesson for the 2020 growing season. 

Ponder further here. 

***

Finally, Buds

I planted three moonflower vines and one Heavenly Blue vine 

in the same pot and popped on a trellis-style topper.

Experienced vine-growers among you will immediately 

recognize my mistake: too many plants in one pot.

It happens. 

Spring was long-gone into summer, and there I 

stood with more seedlings than I really wanted. 

Instead of throwing them away--

I'd already given many of them away--

I just tucked them all together, shot it with a hose, 

and declared the planting season "finished."

They've been battling it out, overcrowded and slow to produce any kind of bud—not 

a bloom in sight. This photo shows the vines still reaching, tender tips 

tapping the air, seeking anything to grab and entwine. 

It's the name of the game for vines, right? 

Here in September, these plants have finally gotten the message that 

there's nothing else to grab—no fence, tree, or trellis nearby to support it.

That's when the buds start to appear.

Much to ponder here ...

I'll share photos of the blooms as they arrive.

This is a moonflower bud. I hope to see the white moonflowers and 

 blue morning glories on the same trellis, blooming at opposite 

times of day. That's the master plan, at least. 

    

    Entering the publishing world is a lot like being one of these vines. You feel your way gingerly, hoping to find a place for your work — a publishing house that shares your vision ... a place to bloom. When you find one, like I did when I signed with Familius Publishing, it's hard to overstate the excitement. 

    The release of my first title with them has been delayed until 2022 because of the pandemic-slow economy of 2020. I've heard from the publishing folks at Familius though, and while my book-bloom is slightly postponed, Familius is still my place to set buds and eventually bloom. 

    It's hard to overstate the gratitude for this blessing. I might see some illustrations concepts for the Family Dog / Lit Pups project before the end of the year. If I'm allowed to share them, I will. 

 

Spring Garden Tips and Swift Transitions

My lily of the valley went above and beyond in the last few weeks. 

This frilly girl can be invasive—extremely so. 

If your boundaries aren't strict enough, it will take over the entire garden. 

I recommend putting it in a container if you can't be ruthless with the hoe. 

Our Japanese maples were frost-fried during the crazy weather we've had this 

spring in northern Kentucky. One young tree only has a few leaves left to power itself 

through the rest of the growing season. It's well over twelve feet tall now but 

started as a seedling like the one I found this week. Red maples can be sprouted 

from their "keys" if you have plenty of patience. 

Tutorial here. And this longer tutorial is loaded with information. 

SIDE NOTES:

One of my least favorite sayings is, "The only constant in life is change." But we all know how true it is—life is an ever-lengthening chain of transformations, variations, and transitions with an about-face or two thrown in for good measure. 

* Here's where we have choices. 

Will we choose to react in fear and doubt, processing change from a position of weakness? I admit to pitching a tent in one of these slums or another too many times. 

Or will we choose to absorb life's vagaries with confidence and good humor?

2020 has been a continual test of my resolutions to choose well. 

Maybe it has been for you, too. 

* I've been through a few stages of life now, and here's what I keep coming back to. This is what gives me direction. And when I entered motherhood twenty-eight years ago, this became one of my anthems. Will you share yours? 

What Kind of Fruit?

The fruit trees are blooming on our rural one acre.

Blushing peach tree blooms, alabaster plum tree flowers, and still-tight apple buds. 

It doesn't matter how desperate the news, 

spring in Kentucky is settling in and getting comfy.

 My Youngest planted these trees a few years ago. 

They're barely tended, receiving only a hard pruning now and then. 

 No fertilizer. 

No pest control measures. 

No staking or mulching.

And yet ... they bear fruit anyway. 

But not the sort of fruit anyone looks forward to enjoying. 

Tiny and shriveled, what survives the late-season frosts 

bears the gnawing of every critter that passes through our backyard retreat.

With the rest of the world, I'm examining the fruit my life is bearing.

In impossible-to-imagine pandemic days, will I yield fruit gnawed by fear and anxiety, 

frost-bitten with affliction, neglect-shriveled knobs?

I pray not. 

Will you, with me, work alongside the Master Gardener to 

stake what's leaning and allow the pruning of what's useless?

 Are we willing to stand guard against enemies of anxiety and 

despair, and instead, pour on the fertilizing energies of gratitude and generosity?

I pray so.

Together, we can bear fruit that will bring delight instead of disappointment. 

Read more about spiritual fruit here. 

Explore a fascinating innovation in fruit trees here.