Spent time with my flowers yesterday. No pruning or digging. Just looking and touching. The wild honeysuckle has bloomed. The Crossvine on the trellis is full of tangerine colored flowers and looks as though it’s found a home. The spiderworts are showing off all across the yard wherever they’ve taken up residence. I’ve started trying to be a little more particular about where I let them grow. The salvias are waving their little red flags. And that’s nice to see. They’re a foundational plant, some of the first we brought to the house.

The rest of my beauties are starting to line up for their late spring and early summer parade. The Gregg’s Mistflower, the wild onions, the Coral Sage, the Turks Caps, and the Iris’s all look healthy and will soon add their color to the show. By now I would have been well into my weeding, clearing out the visiting grasses and their kin. But in preparation for my aneurysm repair, I’ve avoided digging in the dirt in case any pathogens are lurking about hoping to lay me low. There will be plenty of spring left after the repair and the weeds will wait.

I know I’ve talked about my newfound love for the mountains and their big vistas. And it’s true and its real. But the gardens are their counterpoint. It’s my small place. The place of the morning walk, the evening stroll. The place for contemplation and wondering. A place to love. With plants to love. Where the bees and the birds and the butterflies mix and mingle. Where life on the small scale proceeds beneath the trees and the music of the flowers fills my soul.