While it is February one can taste the full joys of anticipation. Spring stands at the gate with her finger on the latch.
- Patience Strong

The rays of the sun make their way through the trees as I turn my face towards them. The bark of the tree it like art, and later, after the photo is taken, I spend too much time online trying to identify it. Who cares what it is. Will identifying it make any more amazing? The smoothness of the trunk feels like silk, and the sun rays shower me with anticipation.

As I sit typing I can hear the song of new birds outside the window, and notice a pinkness to the sky as the sun rises over the lake. I find comfort in the repetitive cycles of the seasons, understanding that winter is not over, but, spring is lingering backstage, eagerly awaiting her turn.

“I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing.” 

― David Whyte

I once pulled into the parking lot of the park, but after reading the sign that no dogs were allowed, I turned around and left. And even though I pass the sign for the park almost every time I leave the house to go into town, I never turned into the lot again. After years of photo walks with our dogs, the time has come for me to venture out alone. And that is just what I did yesterday. I sat and watched the light as it moved through the trees, I listened to the birds, and I studied the sculptures from different angles. I left a good part of the park unseen, saving it for another trip. And when I got back in the car to head home, I brought with me an awareness that felt like a revival.

"I'm happy our grandson does not yet have sophisticated language or a working knowledge of personal finance, because if he took my hand and said, "Nana, can you sign your 401(k) over to me," I can imagine myself thinking, well, I don't really need a retirement fund, do I? 

- Anna Quindlen -Nanaville: Adventures in Grandparenting

He comes to play for a few hours. He and Grandpa play with play dough, and walk the house looking for deer. He wants nothing much to do with me. Suddenly he seems so big, running though the house giggling, and hiding, having full conversations with Grandpa. Then the next minutes, he is crawling up onto my lap, wrapping his arms around my neck whispering, “Gramma, I love you. “

I take in every moment.

“We are making photographs to understand what our lives mean to us.” 

— Ralph Hattersley

I spend hours, here and there, over the last few days, fighting with this blogging platform. I loose sleep, wondering if the blogging gods are tying to tell me something. It causes me to ponder, over and over, why I am here. But that is an old story, for if not here then where? Living in the darkness, or worse, napping and watching mindless TV. I wonder if it is some kind of setting within the platform itself, that I have mistakenly made angry. I won’t give up and have reached out to the wise tech people, and now am waiting patiently (ha!) for their reply. In the meantime, if you pop in and everything is wonky, know I still have things to say and photos to share, so please bear with me.

“Henry Mitchell, in his book One Man's Garden, observes that "it is not important for a garden to be beautiful" in everyone's eyes. But "it is extremely important for the gardener to think it is a fair substitute for Eden." Perhaps this is an overstatement, or perhaps it is a theological truth.” 

― Vigen Guroian, Inheriting Paradise: Meditations on Gardening

When one inherits a garden, like we did when we move three years ago, one must give it some time to show its worth. I sat back for a couple of springs and summers to see how it would unfold and feel. Some of it works, some does not, meaning that this year might be brutal for some of the plants that surround our home. There are several yucca plants, most likely planted because they are one plant that are truly deep proof. But to me they look somewhat out of place here in the pacific northwest, also the colder winters we are having, are hard on them. Of the several we have scattered around the yard, this one might be the only one that will not be dug up. Each winter I find the leaves healthy and vibrant, full of intricate patterns and colors that draw me in. It lives across the small pathway leading up to our front porch, opposite the bed of hellebores, and the deer turn their noses up at it. This time of year, when I am yearning to be out in the garden, it is more proof that spring is coming.

 

In the Victorian language of flowers, hellebore symbolized delirium, according to The Language of Flowers printed in New York in 1834. Today, hellebore's symbolic meanings include peace, serenity, and tranquility in addition to anxiety, stress, and scandal.

I head outside to sweep the front porch and am happy to see that the hellebores are starting to come up. I go back in to get my clippers and gloves, spending the next twenty minutes peacefully working in the garden. I feel the anxiety and stress slip away as I understand that spring is on her way.

Now I am waiting for some kind of scandal to arise!

“You are Mr. Owl. I am Ms. Hummingbird. We may be came from different species but as long as you're a bird, I'm a bird too.” 

― Glad Munaiseche

I have a tiny feeder that sticks to my kitchen window.
I keep a jar of sugar water in the fridge just for them.
He comes first thing in the morning and scolds me if it is frozen.
She comes in the late afternoon and watches as I wash lettuce for the salad.
They chase each other through the bushes along the fence,
and chatter high up in the tree tops.

I never get tired of watching them.