Flowers have spoken to me
than I can tell in written words.
They are the hieroglyphics of angels,
loved by all men
for the beauty of their character,
though few can decipher even
fragments of their meaning.
~Lydia M. Child
In July and August when week after week it’s beyond insanely hot, when day after day it’s miserably humid, when weeds grow higher and faster than grass, when hordes of mosquitos and armies of flies launch endless assaults, and the flowers of spring have long been gone, I begin to entertain the idea that it might just better to hire someone to come with a bulldozer and level my flower beds.
This has become an even more freqent a consideration as I’ve aged and found it harder and harder physically to manage it all. But then a day or days come in the spring when I get up and migrate to my chair that looks out at a large portion of our yard, and I see through our oversized glass patio doors why I not only created my garden but also why I absolutely cannot part with it.
The millefleurs patterns of flowers and leaves are reminiscent of old tapestries and antique porcelain which take my breath away and transport me back to times long and forever gone. Moreover it numbs the madness of world and the trials that come as I remember poets of old, books like THE SECRET GARDEN, and the flower-lined streets and alleys of my childhood. It is my haven, my sanctuary, my sacred space, and in and of it my soul feeds and my spirit takes flight. These photos I took through the glass doors do not do it justice, but perhaps you too can get a sense of its glory.
Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. ~Song of Songs 2:12 ✝