January 2024 I am besieged by post holiday blues (perhaps it is pan holiday as I oft dread the holidays before they even begin). Then how is it possible to have post holiday let downs…. To add to melancholia: viral onslaughts, deep trenches of depression, and sudden death of an acquaintance and I am taken aback. My face is down. My gardens beckon as there are winter chores but my strength has left my viral ridden body. Maybe half of my heart has left too, would there be no help? I am weary but start at the arbor. The vine must be pruned for the best of the grapes. It is a harsh and painful cutting away of the garbage.

John 15 “Every branch that does not bear fruit, he prunes”. He cuts away what is toxic, replaces with vitality.

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser” so begins the advent as we hope for glorious fruit!

The VivaVonne is in need of winter haircuts! It is a nose-running cold day in January. Living well is learning how to endure best the uncomfortable in this life. Life puts us in uncomfortable places. Gardening blesses with divine gifts of creation but teaches hard lessons. Pruning of the rose bushes and boxwoods happens with care. Straw goes down. Freshly applied straw is this gardeners’ delight! I wish it could always look this trim! No weeds! While my heart is pumping and life is infusing, peace fills my entire being. My Mom (VivaVonne is dedicated to her) was plagued by a life long mental illness and now is at peace. I am at peace. The garden is at rest for the winter.

Winter 2022 brought record lows. The branches of the young olive trees were without green, brittle and brown. I fear the worst. Then, at the base, there is green, oh yes, there is life growing from the roots! “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit says the LORD of hosts”. Zechariah 4:6. This passage is a picture of God’s faithfulness. This is a reminder that His Spirit is poured out to us, like the oil in the lampstand and from the olive trees.

Spring 2024: The spring first flush of VivaVonne, now four years old. So if we are being honest here…. I am a passionate garden girl, but to look around you cannot always tell it. All of my photos are legit, no apps to improve and no editing. However, the VivaVonne this spring, was majestic. Dear Reader, I simply do not have the photography skills to portray. The following are half hearted attempts, but pale in the true glory.

Winter garden work delivers rewards in the spring. The garden springs eternal. Warm and breezy days in the gardens are with boundless expectations. There is not enough daylight to contain the sheer joy.

Summer 2024 brings harsh conditions in the deep south. The heat steals from your very soul. Fatigue is unwelcome and overstays, days on end. Evil weeds win. Summer rains nourishes the weeds, selfishly invading. One has to reach deep to find endurance and acclimatization.

Enola Garden Summer 2024: Cooking is a love language from me to my family. I so love the feverish burn of preparing ambitious recipes whist squeezing in a mad, quick run to the Enola potager to clip a few fresh ingredients.

It is the worst of the summer.

Grief does not seem to leave me.

How can this be 11 years later?

They say, “She never got over it”.

Why can I not get past this?

When will this heaviness lift?

Why does loneliness close in on me?

From the anguish of Psalm 88:1 “O Lord, God of my salvation, I cry out day and night before you.”

Owls are hooting early morning in August. I walk to the VivaVonne and listen. Don’t you smile when you see a yellow rose? I walk south of the house and there it is again. So the owl is flying back and forth? No, it is the sweet love song of two owls.

From the ancient writings of Job 12:7 – 8

“But ask the beasts and they will teach you;

the birds of the heavens, and they will tell you;

or the bushes of the earth and they will teach you;

and the fish of the sea will declare to you.

Who among you does not know

that the hand of the Lord has done this?”

It is the sweet love song of God who lifts the heaviness with the owls as they tell and the bushes of the earth as they teach.

Fall 2024:

#widowremindsmeofaninsect

#spiderlilygarden

#somedaysareblack

This old beautiful lily is glorious in the (finally!) fall! I found a single bulb from my former home before this one, hidden in the grass. That gardener was from a day gone by. Who knew! What a gift!

This camelia in the Sadaharu garden is shooting up! Only in the deep South can the fall be truly celebrated!

The Best of 2024. Truly.

I never met Ada Mae, my maternal grandmother. She did not live to see grandchildren. As it was, I only knew beautiful glimpses of who my mother was as she had a major mental illness. I do know that my mother adored Ada Mae and to hear her speak, there wasn’t a more perfect human. I have questions for Ada Mae. Just what happened to your heart when you saw for the first time a mental break? Just what was Mother like before disease captured her mind? Somehow, I know there would have been a story about a garden at the Old Home Place. My Mom was a young college graduate when Ada Mae passed away. Was it a tragic trigger, launching episodes of mental collapse? Deep in thought, tears brimming and I shudder. I blink and open my eyes to the God-given gift of grandchildren. Five at this writing, they are so very grand. A vision for Grande Garden III has arrived, and has to grow.

This garden needed construction. One thing I have learned from the widow walk is how to take care of things myself. Check out my gift to myself on Father’s day.

I remember a trip to see Mom. She was getting weaker and was recovering from a beat-you-up fall. She greeted me with a smile that encompassed her entire face, bruises and all. I quickly perceive it is not my arrival that she is grinning about. As Mom was recovering her wounds, she dreamed about Ada Mae. God granted her the image of Ada Mae sitting on the side of her bed, smoothing out the covers, soothing the hurts. What followed was 3 1/2 years of the Final Fragmentation, the death of my Mother’s mind. Ada Mae brought comfort to her before it began, and to me too.

My beautiful sister and our children with all our sorrows took care of Mom, 24 / 7 for three and a half years. The little family recovers and heals, peace comes. This garden is dedicated to Ada Mae, smoothing out all the rough places and soothing the hurts. It is Grande.

Some real life facts:

• The camellia “tree” behind the barn immediately dies.

• My grandchildren destroyed this garden. And again. Sorry, no pictures of this! Amazing how it repairs, wow!
• We almost never get the dirt out of Frannie’s fingernails.
• We still have not found the dinosaurs.

One, two, three, Tree! Sometimes I get there first. In this made up game with the Grands, we run fast to the numbered tree. Sometimes, oh but sometimes I see…

Treebeard. Do you see him too? Only a Lord of the Rings fangirl like me would look over her shoulder and wonder if this Ent is looking for the lost Ent-wives. My grandchildren call this Ent tree, number 5.

Another game we have worn out is “The Bad Guys are Coming”. We have an unspoken signal by second and third finger strokes on either side of our nose that there is danger and we must find a place to hide. We escape to the woods. Would we see Elves in this Mirkwood?

As we journey, we find seed pods and dried flowers. Those of like passion for wild nature agree to know this as treasure. Ah, perhaps, may it once have been under the Lonely Mountain?

Bilbo’s greatest adventure was a trip to his pantry, until Gandalf found him worthy to carry out the mission. Bilbo and Frodo were ordinary Hobbits, not of noble birth or royal means. They become heroes in the LOTR monomyth to rescue Middle Earth. I pray that my grandchildren will rise up strong. My prayer is that they will use the talents God gave them as their journey may take them into Mordor or the like. May they indeed be Grande.

Some real life notes:

The dinosaur garden (Grande Garden I) was a huge success! It survived two seasons. We had a wedding at our house and during this time there were three great unsolved mysteries, one being that all the dinosaurs went missing, never to be found to this day.

The hobbit hole was half eaten by the dog. Fortunately, it was the back half.

The green grass of the Shire all died.

Many of the figurines become broken, what do you expect?

This lovely fern is living on from Grande Garden I, the dinosaur garden! For this garden girl, a nice reminder of Ada Mae graces the outdoor table.

Thomas Jefferson, despite his eloquence, described his gardening disappointments simply as “failed”. There were many. The garden does not always turn out the way we want it to. We are broken people. We are left with wreckage and just what do we do with that? We do not seem to be in control of plant DNA and growing conditions.

In my gardens, some things are on life support!

The Dwarf Mondo grass planted between the tiles… Failed. Maybe too much sun? Calling for all suggestions.

The Milkweed takes a beating after the house is power washed. No caterpillars visit me and I see no chrysalides. Burn Unit?

Last summer, the entire VivaVonne garden is struck by a malady, I knew not what. I assume the worst diagnosis, Rose Rosette disease, a lethal rose disease also known as Witch’s Broom. There is no cure. I sink into despair.

A solution comes forth. It seems as though this pesky weed may be the culprit. It insists on invading the walkways and has a sturdy growth rate, alas prolific. The taproot is long and it is sticky to add to it’s undesirable qualities. I resort to herbicide. It seems as though I singlehandedly inflicted my garden and not a rose virus pandemic. I lose 4 bushes. After a time to lament, there would be sprays, feed, compost and time in the Recovery Room.

The Spider Lily garden had major setbacks with the construction of the adjacent Enola garden. Needs a Level 1 Trauma Center.

This voracious unidentified species is unwelcome in the Enola garden. Any takers on what this is? There are many other pests whose images are disturbing to the innocent reader of this blog.

A time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal Ecclesiates 3:2-3 (ESV)

Dichondra argentea (Silver Falls) may be putting down some Sadaharu roots. This one is gaining its strength.

Recovery after the burn. Graduated from the wound clinic. The monarch visits me.

The VivaVonne garden is thriving. The little boxwoods with my Daddy’s sweat (yes and some others) are growing. I plant olive trees next to the garden. That can preach. The VivaVonne roses have healed. They are discharged from intensive care.

Vigorous spider lilies. Picture of health.

The Enola Garden is off the growth charts. Purple okra, eggplant, peppers, cherry tomatoes, lavender and assorted herbs.

My new favorite treat for my friends: lavender latte. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4 ESV As the Holy Scripture promises, the comforts come. Look for them.

Connie and Carla hopped off the school bus and barreled down the long driveway. Oh how excited the schoolgirls were! The next hour was sheer delight as they pored over the new Scholastic order form. There was such contemplation as there were buying limits and discussions as to which one she will order now, and which one will have to wait until next time. Connie selects The Beloved Invader.

I look back on my late elementary years and this wondrous story. I was held captive as I read, and read again. How can it be that as a child I was drawn to a late 1800’s story of loss of a wife, a husband, then a child? Who knew, but God? I knew I had to visit St. Simons Island where the people I got to know lived, loved, lost and survived. The early 1970’s found me longing to walk where Anson, Ellen, Anna and little Anson walked. I so much wanted to see the church where they served and pay my respects to where they were put to rest. After I lost my husband in 2013, I was drawn to the St. Simons families again and I knew I must go. The time had to be right. As these people taught me how to heal, a garden began to take shape in my heart.

I find myself drawn to the remarkable families I read about as a child, in The Beloved Invader. I cannot escape the story, the people, the island. A garden takes form in my soul. From stirrings, to paper, to brick and mortar.

Summer 2021, my mother recently passed away after a long and difficult illness. Every cruel curve ball of life is compounded after the loss of a spouse, now gone the one who is leaned on. The loneliness seems endless and hopeless. How did Anson and Anna find their way? Anson pastored Christ Church Frederica, served the island people and learned to love again. Anna poured her heart into the Dodge Home for Orphan Boys. Their work still goes on. Hear ye, all hurting people, our work can go on. I turn in loneliness, a sad feeling, for aloneness, simply a state of being. Aloneness is at peace with solitude, depending on oneself instead of another. I dub myself a trail name: Enola. This is alone spelled backwards (I do not own the rights to this idea!).

How many storms have beat upon the island? Yet the aged oaks stand broad and strong. The hanging Spanish moss cast a charming spell on deep thinkers. There are stories here.

Eugenia Price writes of Anson telling Anna after the death of their young son, “I love you Anna, and that’s going to help me wait for God to tell us how we can avoid wasting our grief.”

Somehow, I know these people. I have lived some of what they lived. They did not waste their grief. I pray God the same.

Enola learns to accept aloneness (one can always hope!) and the Enola Garden, a potager, takes form. A potager is a French kitchen garden. It is designed for fresh produce, but ah, the French appreciate beauty! The potager has select, fresh ingredients for the table this season, differing from the traditional southern garden that produces for an entire year. It emphasizes what we have and that is today.

Enola? Loneliness? Aloneness? I err. God has bestowed upon me beautiful family and friends. They continue to hold me close. Gatherings and dining are on order! Delectables and fresh selections are served up from the potager with conversation, gratitude and laughter. My heart, so full, replete with joy and oh the bounty!

I introduce Enola Garden:

It is good for the soul. There is a little St. Simons’ resiliency in me and in this garden. I have many to thank, never alone!

I am thankful for my family and friends who gave me gifts of money, especially Reba and Gary Uzel, my mother- and father-in-law. I used it to purchase quite a few iron pieces. I am always indebted to Charles Philips Antiques and Architecturals, they have the very best! A big thank you also goes out to my sweet and most beautiful sister, Carla Penton, who gave me gift cards, knowing it fuels my hopeless addiction. I love you my sweet Sis, thank you for being there for me. Always.

I am forever grateful to my wonderful friend Tracey Duren who helped me assemble this trellis for a rose rambler. She is a master gardener and made this project actually quite easy! Thank you Tracey for standing by me while this iron was over our heads and thank you for standing by me the last few very tough years of my life.

The Albrighton Rambler, full of hope and promise, already racing upward! Thank you Emma Mitchell for the David Austin gift card, again for my 60th birthday. I love you my friend!

Many thanks to Billy Duren for the hardware. I am quite sure that Threaded Fastener did not have this in mind for this piece of hardware.

Once again, so grateful to One Stop Services! They are great to work with. I had too much fun with this one.

The St. Simons’ lemon grass finds its way home. The story is in this garden, always with me. The planter is a gift from my three daughters many Mother’s Days ago, it finds its way to this garden. Thank you my sweet daughters for loving me so hard through our sad times. I love you more than I can ever express. I am looking forward to sweet times to gather here!

The Enola Garden.

Every garden has an ugly season. May 2013 I am hurled into a nightmare. I take a walk with a Dear One we love, also a gardener, and we breath, but few words. The Dear One spies the spider lilies. I ask if the Dear One would like this gift, now at a time to share as it has died back. The life is now gone from the once vibrant green blades. No. No, the dear one says. I see the face, the ashen look. Always, every May, I see the grief-stricken face.

• 2020, depression, the unwanted visitor, visits often. My gardens soothe the soul struggle. May 2020 is seven years. I have a basket of spider lily bulbs dug from where once was vigor, now lifeless. So I plant and rivulets of sweat and tears pour forth.
  I want my husband back. I want my old life back.
  

I plant the bulbs along the edge of the woods, a place on the side of the house.  Sweat and tears and no one will see this?
Was there a story about a sculptor in a great cathedral who carved intricacies no one would ever see? Only God?  God sees our grief.  Behind the smiles.  Behind the “I am fine”.  

“For you have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling; I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭116:8-9‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Wintertime.  All is brown except green blades reaching heavenward toward life giving sunlight.  There is no death.  The spider lilies are thriving.  I do believe every bulb made it! 

My old life seems a lifetime away.  The once upon a time when there was someone to share the joys of family life.  Growing children and the spirited teamwork that it took.  He was the strong leader and the decisive one.  His Faith was never shaken. 

Then I see among the carpet of grass, all that is common, a darker blade, one that is distinct.  How did it get there? Not I.  A gardener many years ago and I wonder what their story was?  I pry it out and yes, a bulb. 

/

The gardener long ago planted the spider lily.  The grass grew over and there were no blooms.  The one bulb I pried out has multiplied and now I have several areas of festive blooms.  The plant performs best if divided after the foliage dies back. So this resilient little lily never really dies. October 1960 my parents were married at my mother’s home and the spider lilies were smiling as they gave the bride away to the handsome young man.  I rejoice every October as I watch the show and I see my Mom, Dad and my husband.  Who they were are with us still, sharing and touching lives, and yes, still giving.   This lily cannot be found for purchase.  One can only have this in their garden by way of gift. A gardener long ago leaves to me, and I wish to leave to you, maybe with a story and memories. 
PM me if you would like a few bulbs! 

On a small farm in rural Alabama, Ada Mae and Sol with their son Vivian wonder how will they find their way? The year was in the Great Depression. Their solution may lack wisdom as well as originality. They have another child.

Maternal and paternal gametes meet among the calm and blue. Chromosomes cross and sort but somehow a collision. Genes that should be forever silent crash open and do not stand down. The milieu thickens and grey becomes more grey. The boiling brew escalates yet more angrily. Bolts of current fire across the violent exchange. The tempest turns. The storm surges. Switches find their place and are poised for the pull. At the command, the disease schizophrenia will be unleashed. For now, the disease sleeps until time to awaken. The baby girl, beautiful, gentle and demure is Voncille.

2017 an aging man, Barney, senses something is very wrong. His once never ending stamina is ebbing away. He is married to the love of his life 57 years. She is a gardener. They have a daughter who has the same love for the garden. He does not have this love for the garden but because of a greater love for wife and child he makes it a triad. There is one more, perhaps always one more, garden to make. He turns the soil and prepares the beginnings of the new garden, ever so well. It is his last gift to his beautiful wife and his little girl.

Voncille is now a young lady and is ambitious and goes to college, rather uncommon for the day. She insists that she not be called Voncille, she prefers Vonne. She meets a young engineer, Barney. He signs up for a tour in the Army and is stationed in Alaska. She has elegant penmanship and a way with words. The letters fly back and forth from Alaska to Alabama and their romance is long distance. Perhaps that is why he did not see it.

Soon after they were married, the switches are thrown. Schizophrenia awakens. It is among the top five most disabling diseases. He sees frightful and utter collapse of the mind. She hears voices and commands from within and sees visions unreal to all else. Organized thinking crumbles.

They have children in the midst of heartache, like Sol and Ada Mae. I am the eldest daughter. Despite the episodes of psychosis and grandiose delusions, Vonne manages to take care of her home and her family, and does so very well. She is high functioning and uses the talents God gave her to the maximum. Vonne is beautiful, yet is a lover of classic beauty, oh, but especially a garden!

This picture was in my room when I was growing up. I was the little girl. I saw the beautiful lady as my Mom. There were dark days when madness visited us and I longed for her to return as she was in this picture. It was much later that I find out that this Renoir painting is known as “Sisters”. I find it strange, even to the present day, as it surely is a depiction of a mother and her little girl.

When the disease had a stronghold grip on her, she was drawn into nurseries and planting. It was a balm for her mind. I was her biggest encourager and I was the action for the vision. My dad was not a garden enthusiast but was just happy to be along for the ride. I have many memories of our triad with a shovel and new treasures from a nursery. She was happiest planning and planting a garden. We were both addicted. It was never enough. There was always another garden project. A greater part of my life I was fearful that I would unravel to this disease where one is removed from present reality and ushered into a world no one else can hear or see. I am thankful to almighty God who granted me escape from the gene(s) for schizophrenia, but I am very glad to have her garden gene!

A vision plants itself in the heart for the next new garden…

I dream of a parterre. I envision classic and formal beauty with geometrics and order. Order is so comforting, a peaceful balm to the soul. A fledgeling attempt to tame nature. Plan and design. The Renoir picture is perfection. My inner being longs for it. By 2017, I begin to speak of the dream out loud. As I talk more, I am met by others with questions, or silence or polite platitudes. When I speak of it to my mother, she is overjoyed. She basks in every nuance of the plan. Viva! Approve, cheer on, long live!

I buy “mother boxwoods”. There are two dear friends who know more about gardening than I ever will and they graciously agree to impart their wisdom (and some brawn!). The plot has been well prepared. Mere small cuttings are taken from the “mother” plants. They are planted and watered. How they grow!

• 

Conditions are adverse. Weeds and fire ants seem to defy any deterrent. The dogs visit often with disruption. There are several episodes of drought. December 2017 Barney passes away and what follows is the final fragmentation of Vonne’s mind. My heart is forever broken. Over 200 little cuttings struggle along for two years but ultimately thrive and flourish. It is then we find the best about ourselves among the worst of times.

The plan is a walled garden. There was a tendency to hide the disease. Little did we realize what we were hiding something of great worth, a priceless gem. Peer inside!

The roses are old home place roses, bred for the south, relatively black spot resistant. They endure heat and drought and remain everblooming. The best part is the fragrance.

My family and gardening friends are hopelessly reigned in to help plant. The project construction takes much longer than initially planned and I blame the Rona Reason. Planting day falls on the hottest day of the summer. I think these people love me and I am basking and baking.

The view from the second story of the house. Life is breathed into VivaVonne.

Come now, peer inside! The boxwoods and roses so young. Come visit again to see it grow!

A mere few months after planting God smiles down.

I become her caregiver. She no longer lives in our world and cannot possibly perceive that her mind has dissolved. I bear the disease for her the last days. I am honored.

As I write, her strength is ebbing away. Soli Deo Gloria. Forever grateful to this beautiful lady. May the garden grow. May she be released from this disease, yea but soon. You Grow Girl!

I love you Daddy. Your little girl misses you.

Some books leave one with a deep impression, and things can happen… Thanks so much to the Antique Rose Emporium for being kind to a novice.

A heartfelt thank you goes out to my friends and family: Chris, Tracey, Elizabeth, Tyler, Meredith and Rebecca. Thank you Chris for your negotiations as I was short on my boxwood count!

Thank you Jeremy Wiggins as he never laughed at me, even from the beginning. He made it happen! Check out One Stop Services!

Many thanks to Dalton for placing the European street lamps. This is the birds favorite place to perch, then nature happens. Notice the spikes at the top. Don’t mess with this widow.

Farewell until the next garden. Meanwhile, I will have a fabulous time watching the garden grow. The brand is “corona”! Anyone for hire? I guess I will learn how to use these things…

Yesterday was Leg Workout Day. Today is List Workout Day on the home front. A gardener must weed and it is always on the chore list. I feel it in the quads, hamstrings, yes uggh, the gluts. My eyes look up to….

That guy must have a brutal leg workout day.

Another look at a voracious stare down.

Did I see tentacles on both ends? Maybe this is not a stare down – is it glut day for him?!

This plant is milkweed planted from a one dollar package of seeds bought at a home supply store. The caterpillar will soon be a Monarch butterfly.

God morphs weed day into Monarch Day. “One who Reigns”.

Core workout day. Isn’t the stomach part of the core? I crushed it.

The “J stage”. The caterpillar is now ready to begin the metamorphosis – pupate.

24 hours after sighting the first J shape, a chrysalis forms.

If you have read this far, then you are with me, my friend. Take two seconds out and turn on the sound for the little video above. You may smile and you need to smile! 24 hours after the first J shape sighting, a chyrsalis forms. 48 hours later, the photo above, look closely, you can see the outlines of the wings. The lower photo was taken last night, another J form. He is hanging out. Or is it hanging down? Maybe hanging up? Bye now until next time. It is bad timing. I am leaving tomorrow to go hiking on the AT (Appalachian Trail). I must leave my elderly mother and caterpillars in the care of my adult children….

Welcome back to the Monarch story! I have returned from the AT. Below is one of the highlights of the trail. The hematologist stands triumphant at the peak of Blood Mountain.

Meanwhile at home, rest day for the chrysalis. Much needed after leg workout day and core day. The newest chrysalis; some people say the Monarch name was assigned because of the gold crown.

The first one we noticed, now about a week old.

Hope they make it as there seem to be wasps, frogs and lizards watching rest day. There are in total four chrysalises.

Chrysalissess?

Chrsalides? Who knows?

I give you joyful anticipation. Only a matter of a few hours.

Now everything is a threat. Low days. Heavy sadness. Anhedonia. Loneliness. Brokenness. Joy is stolen.

It is scary out there. I might just stay in here. It is easy. I might be liking rest day a little too much. It does get dark in here…

To Live is Christ.

As the events unfold, the green chrysalis transforms to transparent. Quickly (I could not capture the actual happening) a butterfly emerges. It must hang upside down for the wings to dry.

Cannot stay in when GymShark calls! Today is Super-Pump Arm Day!

Feel the burn after being folded for two weeks!

Hey, don’t I know you? Did you do something to your biceps?

A little opening in the woods. A little family. A little story.

2004, a Mom, Dad and three little girls bought a few wooded acres. Emotions and excitement ran high with much talk of building a house and having horses. The woods were thick and dense and at first, the Dad cleared a small opening. After owning the property only a mere few days, the little opening was christened with a campfire. Roasted hotdogs and marshmallows were delightful.

The little gathering was Tim and Connie and their little girls. I am Connie. Tim was my high school sweetheart. My only love.

That night, we held each other close.

What followed was a lot of work. Some wooded areas needed to be cleared. We had to be patient to allow the budget to recover. God blesses.

How does one carry on when your life looks like this? Life can hit you hard like a cruel curve ball coming out of nowhere. Then it hits you again. And again. Maybe other stories for other times. I was approaching 7 years of widowhood and was at a very low place. Never ending and hopeless. Sadness and loneliness.

I wander into a garden nursery like a zombie. I wondered if the workers ever see other zombies like me, with hurting hearts, just wandering around and “no thank you, I don’t need any help”. I had no plan, nothing in mind. I saw a beautiful selection of camellias and bought a few. I had no idea where I would plant them.

When I get home, I realize I bought the only sad plant in the nursery. Dang. This will be a sad garden. I will come here and sit when I am sad.

Do we like to tarry here awhile? It is easier and less costly to keep telling the sad story. To my Wilmertown friends who studied the book of John, in chapter 5 Jesus asked the paralyzed man at the pool at Bethsaida “Do you want to be healed?”

Might I ask?

Tumultuous times. My heart cannot shake loss. Loss of a lover and soul mate. Loss of the steel structure of our family. Gone. Around me is swirling the coronavirus and a drape of fear is descending. Social distancing. I already am that. I plant the camellias.

John Chapter 1, an obscure passage, verses 48 and 49. Nathaniel was praying under the Fig Tree. I am guilty of reading too much into things, but I envision Nathaniel with loss. Who knows: loss of a wife, maybe a child, maybe a business? He was crying out to the only One that could help. When he met Jesus he asked how Jesus knew him. Jesus answered, “I saw you under the fig tree”.

As I plant, my heart begins to beat. My soul awakens. A vision comes. God sees me under the Fig Tree and the healing begins. For those who have loss, find your Fig Tree where you can cry out and God will meet you there.

The garden takes on life.

I saw only sad in Sadaharu. It turns out that this camellia is named after Sadaharu Oh who was a left handed, record holding hitter (838 runs) for Japanese professional baseball. Time to shake off the sad!

Sadness??? One, two, three strikes you’re out.

I bought this rose at “Petals from the Past” a few years ago. It has been moved twice and has not thrived. Conditions were not conducive with too much shade and not enough space. The bush was misshapen and unnoticeable, yes very sad. This spring though, she showed out with multiple prizewinning blooms! The gardener takes notice when there are blooms in troubled conditions. The rose is full, fragrant and stays beautiful in an arrangement for a week.

Benjamin Cant was a rose breeder in the early 1900’s in Colchester in Essex County England. The “Mrs. B.R. Cant” rose may be his best and most well known. Only the best for his wife. My Mrs. Cant needs is a survivor from a rootstock over a century ago. My Daddy was a passionate genealogist. Our Thomas Smith (1612 – 1669) immigrated to Virginia (1635) from Essex county, England. Tough rootstock.

It is time to come out of hiding and now a third move to the Sadaharu garden where there are only the honorable. Can you see the new growth? A new birthday and a new life for Mrs. B.R. Cant. I think she can.

The garden is in place. There will be unexpected showings. Unexpected disappointments. Inevitable change. The camellias and Mrs. B.R. Cant are touted to become 8 feet tall or more. Maybe one day, the camellias and Mrs. Cant will tower, perhaps there will be within a tiled room. I dream about grandchildren playing and hiding in this magical dwelling. God brings healing, joy, laughter, peace, fun.

Only the honorable:

The family gathers. Awesome sunsets and cool evenings. We remember. The little opening in the woods.