New Ground

My blogs have been few and far between this past year, but I vow to post more regularly. . . This spring we broke new ground on the flower farm. Fresh earth for happier flowers. But we are planting more and more native perennials so that we don't have to upturn/upset the earth every year. . .Let the flowers and insects and birds do what they do to disseminate the seed. . . Everything seems happier then. . . Though it is nice to have fresh earth to plant on, it has upset the balance of nature around here. . . The mocking birds (cat birds) are not happy at all. . . they are very territorial. They are taking it out on our four cats--dive-bombing them--and taking it out on us--screetching at us. And the deer come out at dusk and look at us in dismay. I believe they are worried that soon we will till all the fields and fence them completely off. . . Nature worries. Have no doubt. Tread lightly. Show respect. We are still learning. . .

The Garden in White

The garden in white,

lying in wait, like a

bride preparing for

her wedding day,

when life will bloom

with hope, promise--

such evanescent beauty,

but perennial growth.

Happy New Year

It is amazing to me that my last blog was back in April. Although not that amazing, when I think of how busy we were on the flower farm this past season. On top of all the weddings we provided and designed flowers for, our herbal body products really took off. So we were either in the field or kitchen all season long, planting, designing and creating--which I believe we do every day in our minds, manifesting our futures, our destinies. This picture was sent to me recently from a dear friend, and it reminded me that there were two constants in my life as a child: flowers and cats. It seems in all my childhood pictures I am either holding a bouquet of flowers or a cat or two or three. So here I am, now, in my adulthood, living on a flower farm with six (two foster) cats. They say the mind is a dangerous thing. But I say it's a magical thing if we take the time to nurture it properly, pushing out the darkness and letting in the light. This year I am ready for travel, a little more adventure beyond the farm. So please stay tuned. And peace and joy to you all.

A weed is a weed is a weed. . .

Or is it? I have blogged about this before. About the ability of some weeds to so closely imitate the actual flower. This is a picture of False Queen's Lace (Ammi majus), which is the cultivated variety of the native Queen Anne's Lace, which some people refer to as the true weed. . . But mixed in here is False, False Queen Anne's Lace--a weed that resembles False Queen Anne's Lace. Can you tell the difference? I, for one, vote for the native with its center black eye. It is watching us, closely, and probably laughing at our feeble attempts to replicate truth. . .

Tulip Time

April is tulip time here on the flower farm. We dig thousands of tulips that we planted in the fall, bulb in all, and store them in our shed until market day. This year they were taller than ever--maybe it was all that snow that blanketed them this winter. . . The flowers bend and sway on their stems like graceful ballerinas performing their spring dance. It makes me smile to think of so many of them putting on their show in so many different homes. It makes me smile, as well, to think of people reading one of my stories that was just published in the spring edition of The Main Street Rag, a literary journal out of Charlotte, NC. I know that people often say they just write for themselves. But, for me, once the setting, the characters, the plot, all the write words. . . are planted. . . I want that story to dance in many homes. I hope you'll enjoy.

Snow on the Sand

I have always loved the beach during the off-season. The serenity, the vastness, the ability to retrace my lone footprints in the sand. But I most love it when it snows, the white powder drifting across the sand, melting into the sea. It is so lovely, and, yet, seems so out of place; and it is this feeling of displacement that I so identify with. As a writer, I am a drifter. And, yes, the flower farm has grounded me, but I fly in my mind to so many different places each day, still searching for that definitive destination: home.

Happy Holidays

My father’s mother, my greatest inspiration, passed away on December 8th at age 91. So this season has been one of introspection and reflection for both Don and me. I’ve been thinking a lot about her life and what it was that made her so very special. She was definitely the hardest worker I have ever known, running a dairy farm with my grandfather, outside of Scranton, PA for over 50 years, and raising five boys. When times got hard, and with two of the boys headed off to college, she went to work at Bendix Aviation Plant, helping on the farm during the day, and then heading off to work the night shift at Bendix for 14 years. She only slept four hours a night during that time, but somehow she found the energy to do what had to be done. She always did.

But she also found time to play. She loved to dance and sing and play shuffleboard and pinochle. And Christmas was her very favorite time of the year. She was always a child at heart. The smallest of things gave her great pleasure, hand-picked wildflowers, a four-leaf clover. So many times I heard her say, “God has given us such a beautiful world,” and she would gaze out over the green of the fields, the majesty of the mountains, and say, “This is the most beautiful place in the world.” She didn’t understand the notion of travel as she was happiest on her porch with her beautiful view. It was this appreciation of place, of nature, and her love for family that made her so content. Though her life wasn’t an easy one, she accepted it as it was, and always kept her sense of humor. She loved to tell the story of when she was feeding the cows in the barn one evening with her youngest son, and one of the cows pulled her pants down. She was so mad, but the two of them got to laughing so hard they were crying.

At her funeral, my cousin read a list of lessons she had learned from my grandmother, beautiful lessons, the first being “Live life with an open heart.” This my grandmother always did, taking in many strays along the way, including me, when I was trying to find my way. I was living with her at the time when I met Don. And I remember her holding my face between her calloused hands when I said I thought I was in love. “Oh, Lisa,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.” I miss the feel of those hands, the warmth of her hugs, the encouragement she gave me, and her faith in me. But her spirit is still here. When I went out to make a snowman yesterday she was with me, laughing at the flower hat I put on its head, helping me find the right curved branch for its smile. She still reminds me to take time to nurture my inner child and to laugh through the tears, to appreciate what is in front of me each day. To be satisfied in the moment.