BEGONIA CUTTINGS

In the fall, I transplant some annuals into flowerpots. Begonias, polka-dot plant, and geraniums perform well in a sunny window, but by January, the begonias are tall and leggy and looking a bit ragged. So I cut them back, all the way back to the base of each stem, and put the cuttings in a glass of water, hoping they will root. Meanwhile, I have a "bouquet" of pink begonias on the windowsill in the kitchen to cheer me up while i'm washing dishes.

The potted begonia begins to look great a couple of weeks later with compact, shiny green foliage and lots of fresh pink flowers.

More is not always better. More of the begonia plant looks unruly. Sometimes we have to renounce desire, prune our cravings back in order that we ourselves become lush and blooming.

CARDINAL IN SNOW

 A crimson cardinal perches in a snow-covered apple tree, considering whether he will fly to the bird feeder. Chickadees flit from tree to feeder and back again; they are not shy. But the cardinal is a shelf feeder, and this bird feeder is for perching birds.

Nuthatches--which my partner calls upside-down birds--hop up or down a nearby wild cherry tree. Gravity doesn't seems to concern them.

The cardinal launches himself toward the house and grabs a bite to eat.

I smile. Winter bird-watching feeds my own joy.

FULL BLAST WINTER

With winter in full blast, I become acutely aware of the wind chill factor. Air blowing down from the Arctic decreases the already low temperature to tundra-like conditions. Even though I purposely left a small stand of white pines and hemlocks to protect the house from the prevailing northwesterlies, I can sometimes hear the wind whistling around the corners of the house.

Lying in my cozy bed at night, I hear the deepest wind chime bonging--a reminder to watch the air moving in my own body. Breathing in. Breathing out.

 

 

FULL BLAST WINTER

With winter in full blast, I become acutely aware of the wind chill factor. Air blowing down from the Arctic decreases the already low temperature to tundra-like conditions. Even though I purposely left a small stand of white pines and hemlocks to protect the house from the prevailing northwesterlies, I can sometimes hear the wind whistling around the corners of the house.

Lying in my cozy bed at night, i hear the deepest wind chime bonging--a reminder to watch the air moving in my own body. Breathing in. Breathing out.

 

Autumn Joy becomes Winter Joy

I subscribe to the idea of cleaning up the garden in the fall, so i won't have to do it the following the spring.

Oftentimes, though, the body just doesn't keep up with what the mind has planned for it, so when the first snow falls, i notice various tall brown stems sticking out of the snow. "Hmmm," i think. The mind gets busy again, trying to bend the body to its will. "I should go out there in the freezing cold and cut those down."

A few dead plants actually look good in the winter garden. One is a tall grass, variegated green and white in summer, and now tan with a thin layer of snow. The leaves rustle gracefully in the breeze, and the seed plumes wave.

My friend Frances left her Autumn Joy sedum standing on purpose--the flowerheads retaining a bit of the maroon color. Now an inch of snow sits atop each flowerhead, making them look as if they've bloomed again, and bringing Frances winter joy.

Cyclamen Joy

When I went to London one January, I was amazed to see cyclamen growing in window boxes. There I was, wearing my coat from the Pacific Northwest--a polar fleece jacket zipped into a Gortex shell, whilst red and white and pink cyclamen were expressing the joy of the season by being in full bloom.

This experience transformed the way I treat cyclamen. I now keep them in the coolest room in the house--the entry. I send them outdoors to flower on the front step in April. They stop blooming in June and endure the heat of summer hiding amongst my other house plants. But in September, when I bring everything else indoors, I return the cyclamens to the front step until warnings of a hard frost drive them indoors. The cool weather seems to re-energize them, and soon they are blooming again.

Like the cyclamen, I need to be physically cool while meditating. Otherwise, I start to doze off. When I sit, I take off my socks. I very seldom wear a meditation shawl because coziness dulls my mind.

If I want to be alert, I have to act like a cyclamen: knowing that coolness triggers flowering, I endure a shiver or two until joy energizes the body and warms it up.

Oh, I love those beautiful cyclamen.

The Meditative Gardener is On Retreat

I'm on self-retreat, here at home until January 13.

During these next 2 weeks, you'll be reading "re-runs" from 2010. Wow! Have i been writing this blog that long?

While i enjoy the silence of cyber-space, you will continue to receive reminders of mindfulness. Enjoy!