When the Robin Comes Bobbin'

Last fall, Bill cut down the climbing hydrangea that was crawling up the front of house and threatening to devour our metal roof. Its roots and tendrils had snuck into the cracks between the boards and battens of the siding, into the cracks under the eaves, and between the eaves and the roof.

Every spring a robin nested somewhere in that hydrangea tangle near our open bedroom window, and Bill, who likes to sleep late, would be awakened by the whinneying of the robin and its cheer-up-cheer-ly song. Bill was not cheered by this unwanted wake-up call.

This year, a robin is nesting in the euonymous climber on the other front corner of the house. I walk past it many times a day and hear the cheep-cheep of little birdies. I see one robin and another strolling through the flowers of my flowerbeds, successfully hunting worms, then flying three or six feet to the nest. 

Sometimes I wish I lived that close to my grocery store.

Hydrangea Bear

Here in New England, i often see scarecrow-type figures out on people's lawns at this time of year. My favorite this year is a bear made of dried hydrangea blossoms.

Isn't it funny how i say "bear" and see "bear," but there's no bear there at all? This is what our perception does--sees resemblances and patterns and names it "bear." Like the constellation Ursa Major (big bear), which includes the Big Dipper. There's no dipper, and there's no ursa (or bear). We are simply naming the pattern.

Our entire world is made of these perceptions. Fear is one of them. Anxiety another.

But this is the time of year when we sort of like to be scared; we like to scream--especially if we're trick-or-treating with friends.

Boo!

Less is More

Here at the writing retreat center are several end-of-the-season hydrangea bouquets. It only takes 3 or 5 flowers to fill a vase and look fabulous.

Perhaps we could learn this lesson (that we already "know") that less is more.

Less stuff is more time. Fewer commitments also create more time. Here at the writing retreat, fewer distractions (such as no news and no social media) also create more time. No appointments. No grocery shopping because the meals here are delicious!

The writing retreat forces me to cut out distractions and focus on writing (and editing)--activities i actually enjoy.

My writing flowers.

Sweet and Sour

Yesterday, i sweetened acid soil with lime. Today it's time to "sour" the soil around the acid-loving plants such as rhododendrons, hydrangeas, dogwoods, blueberries, and camellias.

You might think, that living in New England, my soil is already acid enough due to a carpet of pine needles and acid rain. After all, acid soil is formed from granite and shale (and coal). But the granite is across the river in New Hampshire, the Granite State. Three miles west, here in Vermont, i live atop schist and a band of brown limestone. Lime-stone, as in the lime that sweetens acid soil. So my soil actually has a neutral pH.

Thus, i add acid, in the form of sulfur, to the soil around the acid-loving plants. I especially pay attention to the rhododendron at the corner of the house because the cement foundation leaches lime into the soil.

Lilacs love lime, but some plants require a more acid soil. In order to bloom where we are planted, we need the right balance of sweet and sour.

Practicing Gardening

When we say "practice the piano," we don't expect the results to be perfect. Part of developing a skill is making a lot of so-called "wrong moves." In this way we train our bodies and minds to move skillfully.

We have a meditation practice too, training our minds to move in skillful ways beginning with mindfulness and loving-kindness.

Gardening is also a practice. No one is perfect at it, not even the so-called experts. We practice by planting seeds or seedlings, annuals or perennials. As much as we might like to "do it right," we have to make a lot of "mistakes," a lot of "wrong moves." That's the reason i'm digging up that blue hydrangea i planted 4 years ago and moving it to a sunnier location.