... is Spring!
|The "breeding ground"|
for my garden
The season of new growth. Of rebirth. Where long dormant plants poke their hardy heads above the ground. Seeking the sun. Seeking warmth. Hardy souls. They rise again from the death of the cold winter temperatures, winds and snowfalls.
|a snow crocus|
the first to rise - and bloom -
As soon as the ground thaws, the snows fade and the temperature gets warmer, I take a daily perambulation around my yard. Checking all those places where the plants used to be. Looking for signs that the rebirth is coming. Signs of life springing from a barren prison. Rejoicing in seeing those shoots spring out of their winter prison. Rejoicing to see those bulbs which have survived the squirrels' digging and removal practices. Rejoicing in life itself!
an early bloomer
I invite you to walk with me on my journey around the yard. Enjoy the delicate bloom of the winter crocus, the earliest bloomer (next to snowdrops) in my garden.
through the apple trees
Look upwards, through the still dead tree limbs, imagining them glowing with green leaves and life. And fruit.
|Buds, set in the fall,|
on the "daddy" magnolia
planted in memory of my father,
a true Southern gentleman
an early sign of spring
an early bloomer
Again in another "memory" garden. In memory of Noella, one of the bravest women I know.
And no garden of mine would be complete without at least one boxwood. From another time, another tradition. Reminding me of my Southern heritage.
rising from its
|Signs of new growth|
on the lilac tree
|Fragile, young and delicate,|
this lilac has managed to avoid
being pruned by the wabbit
|Planted last summer|
these hens and chickens
have survived and
seem to be thriving
|Black Mondo grass|
Like myself, my garden is a composite of my past and my present; my heritage and my future; my likes. A growing, live representation of my courage as I pick myself up from the ashes of trauma and rejection. Poke my head through the soil into the outside world once again.
Enduring the cold, ice and snow of an unexpected traumautic incident and resultant affects. Yet, daring to live, daring to survive, daring to believe that warmth, sunshine and optimal growing conditions will come once again.
Daring to believe that recovery is not only possible but probable.
My garden speaks of who I am in ways that words cannot. That in my fragile state, I cannot. When words fail me.
It gives me hope that like my garden, I too will rise again from the barren prison of trauma and trauma-related physical and emotional affects.
I too will bloom.