My Way of Living [Search results for Seasons] 

Spring is close, and then so far. Our snow fills deep shade, the nights are cold. Frosted roofs dusted, and revealed by sunlight each morning.

Buds want to open, branches fill the air. It's a matter of timing, of waiting, of wishing. Of being realistic. The sun shone like May, but the wind still bit like February. * In happy pockets of warmth Snowdrops race against swelling buds, fooling us into thinking it's going to happen sooner than the forecasts predict. Deep in my heart there is a desperate need for the green sprouts of bulbs, for sun filtered through greenhouse glass. A clamoring for spring. I may say it's only to visit, not to adopt, but there they sit, clothed in dirt, stuffed into mismatched green plastic pots, calling out to me. Who could not want to take them home? My desire wrestles with the knowledge that they will freeze. Look away, the time will come. Seasons change, Spring is certain to follow Winter. What we do not know is when it will happen.

It's in my gardener's heart, to want to plunge my hands deeply into a new bag of sun warmed potting soil once again. To scoop, to t amp, poke, and plant until my aching back will not allow me to stand any longer. The gardener in me lives for when I once again experience the feel of gritty pumice scratching my palms, mingling with the moist dampness of peat moss. To sift soil between my fingers, gloves heedlessly tossed to the ground. Dreaming of sun warming the back of my neck, birds calling in the trees, one eye on the cat who likes to wander. Attention caught by the slight breeze that is encouraging opened seed packets to spill their contents.

I yearn to feel the unfamiliar heft of a full watering can, after almost two seasons of it sitting empty. The way the rivulets of water rush off the edge of the potting bench as I water my new babies, wishing them into full grown beauty. The dreams, the planning, the waiting…all coming together. And in that we are given our first bit of spring.

P.S. Thanks so much for visiting, I don't know if you've read this post but Winter really seems to have rolled over. And I can't wait to buy some potting soil.
*"The sun shone like May, but the wind still bit like February," courtesy of The Root of the Root. Find their Instagram feed here.

There is a short length of time every summer during which it seems that almost anything will start to grow. Take a cutting and stick it in a pot, and it forms roots.
Hydrangeas are easy. It's usually how most of mine are started. Cuttings from bedding plants seem to take during this time. All of the semi hardwood shrubs seem to love this time of year. Vines are great ones to try also. During other seasons, plants need more encouragement to grow, and some rooting hormone. A little luck, and some background knowledge. Honestly I don't know why this works out so well, but almost anything that you stick into soil seems to grow during this short period of time, maybe the moon is in it 4th house, or Jupiter is rising, maybe its just the longer days. There probably is some technical gardening explanation, but it doesn't matter to me.
I do know that there is nothing more rewarding to a gardener than seeing new growth coming from a plant, and right now the possibilities are endless. So I am on my way to go out and buy some more pots, and make more space.

There is so much that we take for granted in life, no matter how thankful, and in the moment we might try to be. But there are moments of total clarity happening all the time, although it might just have to be a quiet, a chance for us to gather it all together to let the moment shine through.
Chaos, noise, interference, jobs, errands, pain, and situations beyond our control, darkness falling sooner, dinner being later.

It’s hard to hear the quiet voice inside our hearts.
I heard it today, and for that I am grateful.
Walking through the countryside, gazing across the empty fields of the neighbouring farms.
The open land undulating with pockets of trees, that are gradually losing their leaves.
Walking free of the towering fir trees that group together around our houses, like birds perched on branches.
Shielding us from summer sun, but lapping up any winter light.
They are surprisingly dense when seen from afar, as if dropped from the sky like cake batter on the floor, smeared below the mountains, scraped from the fields.
Autumn’s thick clouds transformed By the sun into a fine mist, shrouding the dark indented valleys of the mountains that hover over our houses. A leftover summer scarf that will soon be packed away.
My lungs breathed in the faintest scent of wood smoke floating on the damp, sun warmed air. The stronger pungent smell of manure scooped from barns and spread on fields, washed away with the October rain. The latest cleanout of the chicken barn could be scented downwind, mixed with what the cows did outside while waiting to be fed.

It made me grateful that I could walk in such a peaceful and beautiful place, smell the scents of farming. Knowing that come spring they would be busy in the fields again producing food for our tables.
Thankful that I can walk, happy that I woke up today, alive, and with happy feelings.
Glad that I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face as I tipped it towards the sky.
Feel it warm my legs, and my hands where it softly struck.
And as I walked I realized just how thrilled I was to hear the sound of a breeze rustling the remaining stubborn leaves in the almost bare tree branches. Gathering up the sound of the “I’m not leaving quite yet” chickadee singing it’s heart out, in melodious tune with the other birds near the bull rushes.
The swooping wings of a Raven, with it’s guttural clucking echoed off of the land. Chuckling as it passed overhead, a quiet shadow of dark feathers. It makes me wish I could record it to play for you. When a Raven passes overhead, the sheer strength of it’s long wings, the beat of air passing through feathers makes you turn your head upwards and search the sky. And then there is the chuckle, not a call, but a complaint I think, for Ravens seem to always be unhappy, moving from one tree to another.
I passed the red barn, the subject of so much of my photographic journeys in all seasons, glad to know that across the road was the farmer that we bought our free range eggs from.

The metallic jingling of keys in my pocket that kept tune to my steps, are used to unlock a door to a home filled with love, and comfort. A husband who helps out more then his share, and is glad to do it. I’m grateful for his help, and comfort.
I am also glad that our house is habituated by a slightly manipulative cat, who meows continuously for food, but will still allow head rubs, and tummy tickles when he is in a good mood, and if there are treaties involved.
For a furry bundle of noisy grumbles, and early morning wakeup calls, I am thankful because for so many years we lived in places that would not allow us the joy of sharing our life with one. Just remind me that after the next 4 am wakeup call, OK?
Today I am grateful, for life, for sun, for living our dream in a place where family is near, and living in the land that is close to my heart. So I am asking, today what are you grateful for? I’m inspired today by the amazing words of her Face Book postings from Carolynn atA Glowing Ember, and the beautifully written blog posts of Laura from I’m so vintage.
Their posts, along with yours make me grateful that I am a blogger.
For all the good words, and kind comments that everyone leaves, I thank you.
Should you be so inclined, please click on the share buttons below, it would be much appreciated.And double PPS? I forgot that the sponsored post will be published on Monday, November 17th, not today as I’m so mixed up that I mistakenly told you the wrong date, please look for it then.

After years of garden center work I had been trained to keep a eye out for perfection, beauty, and fine detail. But somehow these faded beauties hanging their bashful heads give me more joy to shoot, then when they were at the peak of perfection. To me they are imperfectly perfect.

I am not sure if you see it this way, but I get as much fun out of a crispy brown hydrangea blossom, as I do shooting it’s stunning blues during mid summer. There is a texture in dying flowers, a deepness of a season passed by. And when the hydrangea turns colors as it passes through the stages, it’s even more beautiful to me. When the leaves of a tree turn color, they shine, they shimmer in the golden light of autumn, and as they fall they evoke a good feeling of seasons to come.

So Autumn, come bring your color, and summer gracefully let go of your days. The fading light, and cooler nights will bring many treasures for us photographers. Our subjects may be fading, but they are imperfectly perfect.

I took some photos of my rusted up lantern, and my halfway there rusted up wind chimes. I really like the aged patina, it took a long time for that to happen. They hang outside in my garden, and I like to photograph them through the seasons. Winter with snow on them, summer glistening in the heat.

Somehow I missed a little piece of"bird offering" that was smack dab in the middle of it. And until I processed the shots I never saw it.

So I just used the retouch tool in Picassa to fix it up,and most of it is gone. If I had spent more time you could never know that there had been a bunch of…"ahem" on it. Made me wish we could do this in real life that easily. Got too many bills this month? Just retouch them, bingo, all gone. The dishes are still in the sink from the other day? Retouch! If only this was real life, think of all the fun we could have.

I apologize for the poor quality of these photos, it was very dark, and rainy, but sometimes a photo IS worth a thousand words. And yes, that’s hail, and it got even bigger later on.

They do it big up here in the Okanagan, thunderstorms that is… huge, giant black clouds complete with crashing thunder, and lightning that lights up the sky, gale force winds that whip trees around, it looked like the photos of Florida in a hurricane that they show on the news. Crashing clouds, flashing skies, branches falling onto power lines, now that is a thunderstorm. At first when the sky darkened we thought “oh maybe it will rain a bit” it was hot and muggy just after dinner. Beautiful, the sun setting, a golden glow through the trees, dark clouds, until suddenly out of nowhere the clouds started to bump into each other like shoppers at a blue light sale.

Lighting lit up the sky, it was fun to watch, until the rain started, scary, noisy, wet, there was water all over, driving winds pushing the cedar hedges over, and shaking down the giant fir trees that have lived here longer then any of us.

Rain cascading down the roof, hitting the windows, and then it turned to hail… big chunks of ice trying it’s best to come through the windows. The ground white, in town, lesser hail, but still damaging here. Gardens destroyed beyond anything that should be happening at this time of year, tree branches snapping and falling into the power lines, sparks flashing in the rain. Even we newcomers understand this is not normal for this time of year.

What worries me is that the old timers tell us that they have never seen storms like that last two we have had.

As a gardener, and as a newbie to this part of the world, I watch the changes in the weather in order to understand our new climate. It’s hotter, colder, and harsher up here, but I suppose after a few seasons of each we will be old hats at this. Making snowballs from the hail…

It's early, dark, and cold. The weather man has predicted clear skies, and this seasons first frost. Heading down a steep hill towards the ocean, your brakes screech. You hope that they are not loud enough to wake the sleeping houses that you pass. Other than the occasional reflective striped jogger, and dog walker, there is no one else populating this eerie world. The sunrise colors the sky to the east, casting a dim glow that makes it hard to see the slippery frost covered wooden pier that you are walking on. You give up on the pier, and head over the frosty sea washed stones of the beach. There you quietly crunch down towards the water, making your way across the low tide beach.

Walking slowly, due to the lack of light, you do not disturb the sea birds, and the the absolutely huge and magnificent blue heron, The warbling wonnnnnoook of the Canada Geese, makes your breath catch in awe. The light evens out, and it is time to take photos. As you pick your way through the increasing light, you realize that leaving the rubber boots in the car trunk was not a good idea. Because the numb feeling in your hands may be from the frost, but the coldness in your feet, is from the incoming tide that has just washed over your shoes. Avoiding the large translucent mounds of jelly fish marooned on the sand, you easily mistake a coating of sand for frost. And marvel at the utterly alien shape of them. They have not been picked clean like the unfortunate crab shells scattered around.

Suddenly there is a slight warmth in the air, and a very bright ball of light. You come to the conclusion that this is the reason they tell you not to shoot into the sun. Besides blowing out the expensive sensor in your camera, latent sun spots in your vision make it hard to see the sand. And harder to avoid the puddles of seawater that have now seeped into your last good pair of shoes.

All this doesn't matter as the heron takes flight, disturbed by your movements. You try to capture his flight on film, but he proves too powerful and fast. The sun rises so quickly over the trees, that you can actually see it moving. It makes you feel like you are on a camera expedition in some exotic location. The sea birds chirping, and the whirling of wings creates a lump in your throat. You are grateful that your shoes seem salvageable, and your camera still works. You also know, that this may not be a exotic and unusual place, but it is a special place, and it is home.

If the seasons had personalities like people do what would they be like. Spring would be demure, and soft spoken, all coy glances, and soft pink frills, a real girly kind of personality. Summer would be exuberant, open arms, hugs, tank tops a throw back to the hippy days with a real anything goes kind of attitude. Fall would be quiet and contemplative a bookworm that loves details, cosy fires, crisp leaves, and long walks.

And Winter… well it would be like that person that seems prickly and hard to get to know, but turns out to be not a curmudgeon, but a faithful, and honest companion. The one that you would call when you needed something that you couldn’t ask anyone else to do for you. The one that sets boundaries that only open up after years of friendship, and then very carefully lets you in bit by bit. Winter is determined, fierce, and loyal, do not turn against winter, it will never forgive you. Winter can be playful, not like summer, or spring, but in a here’s beautiful day get outside and enjoy it kind of way. Winter will take you out of your comfort zone, it’s good at doing that. But it is also a teacher, you will learn more about yourself in winter then any other season.

Spring dilly dallies… flounces about with it’s blossoms, and bulbs, it’s not a serious season, it’s very into itself, all about renewal, like a day at the spa.

Summer is gregarious, mercurial, some days it’s over the top, others days it embraces you wholeheartedly. Summer has many moods most of them sunny, but when it’s unhappy you will know it, think of summer storms…

Fall, is more complex then we realize, deep, thoughtful, planning ahead, always considerate of what’s to come. Fall is responsible for winter’s happiness, and never forgets that, it would love to just relax, let the leaves fall as they may, but it can’t. Fall is like the older child, it knows it’s responsibilities and will never shirk them.

Winter is demanding, and can be harsh, but occasionally regrets that behaviour, so it tries to make up for it’s strength by fluctuating… winter hasn’t quite figured out who it is yet. Some days it’s warm and inviting, letting spring peek through the bare patches in the snow, the grass start to green, and then it changes it mind. Holding onto the season with all of it’s might. Winter sometimes you are hard to love, but we are trying and learning to embrace you. Don’t forget to link up your No winter Whining – Finding color in winter this Sunday Jan 19th at Life is like a garden to join in our No Winter Whining link up party. And be sure to “like” our Facebook page , and join in fun at our NWW pinterest boards. One post per week will be given the NWW virtual snowball award, and their posts added to the FB and Pinterest sites. Linky will stay open until the following Thursdays. So get those cameras clicking and find some color in winter.

I’ve always loved those “day in the life of” kind of series, the excitement of seeing how everyone else lives in those exotic places. Looking at what they must consider everyday humdrum scenery, and familiar places, that are new and exciting to us. I suppose as bloggers that why we like to share, and we like to see how others live. Not that much excitement going on here, the snow is still hanging on, the birds are chirping, and singing. Hopefully the nests will start to be filled up soon, I have a fascination with bird’s nests.

Almost went off the road trying to get some shots of them today. I was focused on the birds nest in the bare tree, and completely forgot that the truck is wider then my old car. Whoops one big bump later, I just missed going into the ditch. Oh baby, that would not have made me popular.

I am slowly discovering my new “favourite spots” for photography around here. There is a lilac hedge that is nothing more then bare twigs right now, but in a few months, I will be in there like a dirty shirt, taking shots of the fragrant blooms. I have a winter tree already, a Mountain Ash, that gets sugar frosted berries when the temperatures dip, and as long as I can be brave enough to stand in front of a neighbours house and take pictures… maybe I will just knock on the door and ask permission.

Leaving my favourite haunts behind wasn’t easy, the Oak tree by the school, with the darling little acorns, and the park that was the first place the snowdrops bloomed in BC. The corner stores with the plethora of cut flowers, all jumbles of color and texture. I now have to search out new areas, and find new favourite photography subjects. I think I have a new gate, can’t wait to see the seasons change in the field around it. It’s just all part of my day, and how was yours?

As I write this the late afternoon sun is pinging off of the edges of the glass in the window of my house.
Circling the room, like a bird in flight let loose from it’s cage.
Dancing off of the walls, scattering gems and prisms of glittering colors that cling to the ceiling and slide down the walls.

Out past the window the swaying sun beams filter through branches of towering fir trees.
Laying a scorching bright light that is bent off of ice patches without melting anything.
Soon the sun will be sinking fast into the cold, snow covered dark blue mountains.
I want to wave, lift my hand, and wish it a good trip, but something always holds me back.
My brain forms words that my mouth won’t say.
Please stay for a little while, each day you leave earlier.
You’re a good friend who’s short visits are never long enough at this time of year.
One who is walked to the door with that air of regret wafting in the cold air behind them because they couldn’t extend their stay.
Not like some.
Those who overstay their welcome, such as Winter.
It’s return visit booked a few weeks from now, like a unwanted guest, we can’t truthfully say that we would like Winter to stay as long as it intends.
Oh sure, we will primp the guest room, after all courtesy demands that we at least maintain a certain level of welcoming smiles, and happy greetings. All for a guest who keeps the hot water too cold, and leaves a ring of frost around the windows in the morning.
It’s not that we don’t like this season, it’s just that Winter overstays, won’t leave, despite all of our gentle reminders in February, and rather pointed comments in March.
Can’t Winter take a hint?

We are not running a Bed and Breakfast for the Seasons, move on, hope that you have enjoyed your stay.
Hope you enjoyed your stay, come again… just leave your next visit for a while.
Sun going down signifies the time when the ground feeding quail, and cooing doves move to the feeders. A frantic dash from front yard to back, pecking and darting swiftly from overloaded dish to dish. It’s a feast legendary among birds. a small price to pay for the enjoyment we get out of watching them.
Even Phil the flirting pheasant graces us with his occasional presence, holding court without his hens, royally coloured glamorous feathers gleaming in the setting sun.
Suet cakes high in wire cages, rough bark catering to those with clinging claws. Fence posts below to act like inanimate air traffic controllers, a place to land, hang around, to wait in a holding pattern of whirling feathers until it’s your turn. A winged hierarchy disobeyed only when daring flying feathers and much squawking.
No one hangs around here after dusk, too many predators, it’s eat and run, then hide, hope to survive both the cold, and the hunters.
We indiscriminately feed all and sundry, be they feathered, or fur covered. Bright orange squat pumpkins waiting in the garage for the signs of visiting deer who's first visit is the composter for a appetizer, before dining delicately on bird seed in the front.

I have tarried longer then I thought while writing this, the house cooling down quickly, a parting gift from the sun. I would much prefer wine, chocolates, or even some seasoned sea salt.
The cat snores most indelicately under a warm blanket, completely comfortable with my absence, no warm body needed after the addition of a hot water bottle.
Spoiled, you might say?
Not him, our chaser of feline dreams.
No fan of our winters up here, wishing only for the front door to be opened, and then quickly shut when he realizes that the long memories of warm summer days spent lapping up heat are just that.
Once a outdoor loving, snow tolerant, fur bundled kitty, he is now a happily domesticated lap cat, as long as there is somewhere warm to sleep, and a full dish of food.
A small price to pay for warmth, and constantly attentive doormen. Today we celebrate our 3 year anniversary of arriving in the Okanagan to live out our Muddy Boot Dreams.
One large moving van, one small SUV, packed so tightly there wasn’t even room for a sneeze, lots of sad goodbyes, and one sleeping on my lap all the way up here kitty. A cold weather welcome into the warm hearts of our family, and a snowfall the next morning to welcome us home.
It’s something we had dreamed of for such a long time, what a wonderful feeling to be on this side of the waiting, to be where we have always felt was “home.”
This is simply the most beautiful place to live, and I am grateful that we are able to be here with family, and friends, furry and fleshed.
A dream come true.
Thanks so much for coming along for the journey, and as it continues…

Holidays are so full of expectations, and thoughts of perfection, that sometimes they just can’t live up to the dream, and the resulting crash can be painful unless you learn to let it be what it’s going to be. It’s easy to get carried away with the plans, and preparations so much that you lose sight of the real meaning behind the seasons we celebrate.

Finding something that you are thankful for, and a bit of gratitude can make it a great day. Whatever this season to means to you, I wish you a day that you dream of, a wonderful time of joy, and peaceful surroundings.

I know that it sounds more like a Christmas wish, but for so many people this is the start of such a season of busyness, buying, and preparing that I thought I should just slip it in there. So take a moment to reflect on what you have versus what you need, buy local whenever possible, and buying handmade does more good then you know.

If you are out there shopping, please make sure to give the sales representatives the biggest smile, and a thank you. I’ve been there for so many years, working the holidays, missing the family dinners, tired and ran off of my feet. A smile,, and nice greeting from a customer goes a very long way to making a day more pleasurable, believe me.

Happy Thanksgiving a day early…

There are posts that sing in your heart, some loudly, some softly,… no demands, they just ask to be set free, to be published. Some come unbidden, easy to write, easy to read. Joyful words describing beautiful seasons, and the beauty of nature. We all like to read those, life is hard enough without reading tales of woe in a blog.

And then there are others, a need, demand, not as pleasant to read, but so desperately wanting to be set free so I can move forward. I’ve found that by recording a moment, a memory I no longer allow it to keep my nights, my days, and my life hostage.
They are rarely shared.
This one escaped, it feels so intensely personal, I didn’t want it to, but it did.
You might remember my Dad went into the hospital because of ill health, during his stay there he fell and broke his hip, which extended his stay by months… and we thought that was hard. It was only the beginning of a very long, difficult and heartbreaking journey that is not finished yet. One that we as family can only offer as much support and love as possible.
It’s hard for him, and for us, it takes my heart, my love, and my time to be there with my parents. I am trying to help them out in any way I can.
Dementia is a nasty disease, a wicked awful mind stealing disease that sneaks up behind you and wallops you with a club, lets you stagger off to partially recover, and then does it all over again.
Not nice words at all, but Dementia doesn’t deserve them. It has stolen too many of my family members… and now it’s hitting my Dad.
Life maybe just life, but this… this is beyond fair. I’m angry, I’m upset, I’m worried, and most of all I am sad.
This isn’t a post about sadness, and fear so much as the effort it takes to be there, smile, and encourage during a very difficult situation, we have all been there, or will deal with troubles in some way. I know that, and my heart goes out to all of you as you struggle with difficulties also.
In the end we should know that we have done all we can to help, no matter what the struggles against us were.
This is a post that didn’t come out quietly, it kicked, screamed, shouted, and it continues to do so. It won’t be quieted by frequent power outages, computer glitches, or my unwillingness to publish it.
It wants to be heard, noticed, felt. It want’s you to realize that Dementia is a epidemic, and as much as you think it won’t happen to you, it could happen to any of us or those we love.
I wish there was a happy ending, I tried to give it the best I could, the journey continues. And I will completely understand if you are end up not knowing what to say… that’s OK.
This is not a poem, it’s not a rant, it’s a rendition of a heartbreaking day, one that is etched too closely on my heart.
But in those painfully carved words, there is hope, and there is love.

Life, it’s just life . Fragile shell enveloping egg dropped onto hard floor, slimy splatters, cat prints lead away from the scene of the crime.
It’s not his fault.
Juice tipped onto morning paper, soaked, soggy orange scented old news.
That’s life
Power out… heat wave, stifling hot.
No sleep, hot days, foggy brains.
That’s life.
Moving day, worry, concern, positive thoughts, cheerful, fake happy.
Check for the words now tattooed on your heart.
“It’s the disease, not the person.”
You are a rock.
You are a island.
Simon and Garfunkel knew what they were talking about.
That’s life.
Free hour left on parking ticket handed through the rolled down window of a slow passing car.
Goodness of strangers.
That’s life.
Thank goodness for life.

Last time walking through cloud of smokers, hacking over IV stands.
Familiar face tugs at my memory, daughter of one left behind, revealed as neighbour from my now far away ocean.
My old home, my old life.
Keep in touch, good luck, I wish we had met again sooner.
But we can’t wait to leave.
We hope never to come back.
That’s life
Thank goodness for life.
Moment of calm, breath deep, but for the smells of old, air, memories, hopes, and dreams, escaping through art deco gold painted grating on elevator wall.
Smiles, good wishes fond on your heart, breaking tears into smaller drops.
Heat, never ending hot, shiny sun.
Pack the car, don’t forget anything, him, nervous… upset, hold back the tears.
That’s life.
His words accusing us of betrayal, no thanks for all he has done for us through the years, overriding our words of comfort, preparation, photos shown and forgotten, change overwhelming, he does not care.
Be the rock, be the island for all of you.
Clean, quiet, beautiful surroundings does not replace chaos, disregard, and dirty linens in his mind.
Kindness and attentiveness of the nurses, friendliness of the residents ignored.
That’s life.
It’s the disease, not the person.
But oh it aches, it hurts.
Where are you Dad?
That’s life.
Go back to where you swore you would never return, forgotten items, disbelief on his face as you leave without him, take me back there…
Promises made I will be back, I don’t want to go, but I will be back.
Drop off at downtown pharmacy, street person asks money for popsicle… decision, change for meter, or popsicle donation.
Ticket versus treat.
Wish it wasn’t asked, wish I had both.

That’s life
Hot, sweaty tires black on pavement, roads closed, worry, lost, found, rushing.
Situation same.
Keep up the hope.
Homemade Ginger snaps, cold juice.
They know what happens here, how much of it is life.
Sugar high.
Situation low.
Immaculate garden gazed upon through his window, holds a flower.
Despite his refusal to mellow, to bend, to look.
Shines above all else, single stemmed brilliant petals perfectly displayed.
It tells me yes this will get better, it will get easier.
It’s determination despite the heat to show how beautiful life is, tells me I am not the only rock.
There are other islands.
This is life
Thanks goodness for life.
Tears from your Mother.
Smile from a stranger.
A hug.
That’s life?
Is that life?
Thank goodness for life, as painful as it is right now.

If you would like more information about Alzheimer’s/Dementia this is a link to the Canadian site.

"Hello Spring, my name is Jane, I work in the HR department here at Gardening Inc. and I will be doing your performance review today." "What a unusual name you have, lovely, very…fresh. Rather springy, one could say." "So let's begin by looking at your employment history, and your suitability for the position that you are in now. Hmmmm, yes, oh I see. You are related to our President, Mother Nature?" "Right, OK," [ so that is how you got the job], mutters under breath. "OK Spring, lets take a look at your stats, your supervisor reports that you are late again this season. And that this is a reoccurring problem with you. So this seems to be a area that requires some improvement. We will have to make a note of that, maybe a few seasons of being on time, will give you a better work record with Gardening Inc."

"Let's converse about your attitude. Yes your attitude! It has been, shall we say, a little cool?" You don't really seem to have the usual enthusiasm that we expect from a Gardening Inc. employee." "Yes I understand that you are report directly to Mother Nature, and yes I know that she is my boss also, she has asked me to do your review. Spring, your attitude could use some work." "Now Spring, do not get up and flounce off in a huff. I am in conducting your job performance review, and there is no way that I am telling Mother Nature to get stuffed. This is not going to look good in your file." "Spring! Come back here." Shuffling of papers, door slams. Muttered sentence,"Well, I guess that review is done." Phone buzzes,"can someone send in Summer, please?"

When late summer rolls around the garden is equally beautiful to me, as spring.
There is a light in the sunflowers, beautiful faded yellow petals, seeds bared, like skin peeking out from a tear in a stocking.
The tattiness of the dahlia petals, echoing faded chintzy dresses too long at the dance. Leaves wrinkled and old, faded green, showing their age, reflections of a portrait of a older person, wise beyond our comprehension.
Seed pods ready to burst, spiky, brown, prickly, and plump.

The bones of the garden start to show, no longer distracted by green leaves, reality shines from the bushes. Drapes it’s self over branches, and shouts from the bare spots when late summer rolls around.
There are no pretences, it’s all laid out to see, mistakes, plundered plants, roots, stems… nothing is hidden.

Winter covers the skeletons with a soft white cloak, but fall lays out your plans for next spring.
Dance late summer garden, waltz me into Autumn, as I dream, and make plans of seasons to come. There still seems to be a few glitches with the feed. You should be able to find me under My Way of Living.
Hopefully it will all work it’s self out soon.

Summer has done a midnight move the other night, just packed up and left… from temperatures of over 30C to chillingly cooler mornings, leaving us high and dry.
We knew it was fleeting, soon to leave, but with that kind of heat, you start to think that it will go on forever.
It doesn’t.

There is a visual change in the foliage, colors shifting, sunlight no longer as strong, the air holding a dampness of fall in it. And we had forgotten what it felt like to slip on a sweater, now we remember… I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

Seasons change, and so must we. Jane @ Muddy Boot Dreams

The other day the phone rang, I picked it up.
Click!
Hello, pause, hello?
Buzzzzzz… click, Hello?
A snarky, nasal sounding voice intoned “hello, please hold for SPRING!”
Okay… I’m holding.
And holding.
Waiting…
There is no sign of spring here, in fact it’s colder now, than in January.

I think it was a prank call.
Spring is probably sitting down on a cushion of verdant grass, under a canopy of sweetly falling cherry blossoms that sparkle with dew, surrounded by nodding snow drops. Laughing at us, she prank calls unsuspecting gardeners on her diamond encrusted cell phone. Spring is always up to date on technology, she just doesn’t seem to follow a calendar.
Spring will be sitting there giggling as one by one the lines are lit up, each one a gardener on hold, never daring to let go of the phone, after all, it’s SPRING, and she doesn’t call more then once a year.

She takes her time planning her moves, using a giant chessboard made of fresh leaves, and pastel colored petals… a touch of whimsy here, yes a soft breeze will blow there and they will think it’s me, Spring. Here I will allow the bulbs to show a bit of green, and then it will snow for weeks… this place will have frost hit the new seedlings, and this one will flood.
And this place, ah ha… this is a good one, snow, and more snow, cold temperatures, and then, just when they give up hope, I will show up. Her giggles, and laughter are like soft iridescent bubbles that float in the warm sun sparkled air.
For she has a wicked, teasing side to her, planning hail storms, and snow falling out of season… she’s bored, a young season, never to grow old, and it’s gone to her head. Like the young, she thinks she has all the time in the world, and she does, I suppose… it’s up to us to wait her out.

So I hold on the line, while a tinny, musak rendition plays in the background… Vivaldi's four seasons, it’s winter deep tones coming through my phone speakers right now. Will it ever end?
Hello? Spring?
Hello.

It happened almost overnight, conversations change from how beautiful summer is, and how long we have waited for it, to how almost unbearably hot it is.
Quickly followed by “lets not complain, sooner than we know it it will be winter.”

We are only finishing up the first bit of August, and around here the conversations has already switched to winter. Winter when the only thing touching your cheek is a snowflake, not a biting bug. When your morning depends on how your snowy drive to work goes not how long it took to water the veggies. Winter when we measure the temperature in inches of white stuff covering the ground, not in how many zucchini we have to give away.
Why do we do that? I know the nights are heavy with heat, and the days like a open oven, but where is the magical marker that says let’s move two seasons ahead and look towards the hardest season of the year.

What happened to living in the sweet, sweaty, sticky moment sipping a cool tall glass of ice tea?
I have no idea, but I will admit as I slither up the back porch, hot, humid, dirty, and bug bitten… that I dream of snow.
Yes the white stuff… lots of it falling on my sunburnt shoulders, covering wasp nests, drowning mosquitoes… masking the weeds, cloaking the now golden grass, and keeping the pollen counts down to a less toxic level… but I only dream of it for a second. Really, truly…

Because deep in the heart of winter, I dream of summer, of new growth, fresh greens, life renewed, and golden days that glitter, and shimmer with heat. Of coral sunsets, and sky blue ceilings that have no end.

In winter that makes me shiver a little less…
In summer it cools me down… and it makes me appreciate what I have right now. Summer blogging schedule continues, posting on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. You can find more MBD on Facebook, check out my MBD on Pinterest. Feel free to pin my images on Pinterest, as long as you link to my blog post.

It’s not easy to see weevils, and slugs practically eat your garden alive in front of your eyes. But if you have made the decision to be more green, and use only organic pesticides there are alternatives you can use.
Don’t waste your expensive, locally made, sustainable, micro brewed beer on those slimy slugs. It’s the yeast they want. Just mix 1 teaspoon of yeast, and 1 teaspoon of sugar, in 1 cup of water, place in upturned lids of jars, and watch the slug fest happen. Sit back and drink your specialty beer, sitting in your lawn chair, besides you will appreciate it much more then those swilling snails.
Nematodes, are extremely helpful to control black weevils. Microscopic living creatures, they are usually applied during the cooler months of spring, they can still be used in mid to late September if the temps are cool enough. Check with your local nursery. Mixed with water the creepy swimming [you can’t see anything, don’t go all squeamish on me here,] creatures are poured over the soil in the infested areas and steadily go to work. They will burrow into the larvae of the weevils and destroy them. I found that only one simple application cured my weevil problem for a few seasons, which is good, because they are not that cheap.
Ants are not supposed to like mint, still not sure how well that one works, since they liked to carry the crushed leaves away on my patio. But Borax and icing sugar mixed together and put into places where only ants, not your children, or pets can find it works well. Touring the garden with a flashlight, and a pail of salty water at night, is more then a good way to get splashed, it also lets you pick off insects and drop them into the water to perish.
See gardening can be fun, so happy hunting.
Or if you are like me, then UMMmmmmmmmm happy Zen.

It was as if Winter had woken up, and rolled over in it's bed. Neatly folding back the white quilted blanket it uses, and exposing parts of Spring underneath all of that snow.

Allowing the day lilies a small toe hold in the garden. Hesitant green sprouts appearing in the frozen earth. Snow recedes at a pace that should exhaust it, showing the brown hairy stems of rigid ferns hidden since November. Fuzzy, muted tones of the moss that stretch toward the rare light, mingle with dead, and decayed foliage. Fog settles on the still white fields, competing with the o verflowing ditches, murky with a combination of ice, mud and hope. Today overflowing puddles where there was a thick white covering before. Birds swoop from tree to tree, calling, sounding like a herald of the next season.

A preview, a promise, loosening the tight grip on the edge of the white blanket of snow that smothers the fields. Melting piles, washing down roof tops, dripping off of the branches. Spring seeps into minds, conversations…jackets undone in the sun. Tightened when frost coats the needles of the fir trees in the early morning, chill, damp, and dark. By the afternoon, the fog goes behind the mountains, up the valley, to those who live in ice for longer. Returning with the echoing blasts of the late train that night. A cycle of winter to spring and back again, a disagreement of which season is to take over, and for how long and when.

Can you find the magpie?
We are merely the viewers of this game between the seasons…not players, nor willing audience. Until Spring steps up for it's turn, and then we applaud, cheer, and stamp our feet in approval, and hope for a winner. If you enjoyed this post you might want to read this one.

Cold ground, warm winds,
Rifling through fingers, tugging at hems. Spears of green startle the earth, shooting up towards the light.
Promises made, then broken by spring.

Elegance of eagles on updraft, circling, keening, white heads bright against a blue sky. Sifted clouds, shards of light from above. Translucent wingtips against the sun. Painted canvas a landscape of winter's muddy tones.
Dull greige, blends with verdant, and emerald, dabbled with touches of chartreuse. Poised, waiting, holding back.
Seed sprinkled, doves happy, feasting on the lawn. Giving, taking. Seasons.

Perennials stretch, peek, sleep.
Pots filled, lined up on a bench. Bend the mind more than the body. Spade digs deep with a crunch, searching for roots.
As transplants watch a cat chase, tail flicking, feverish dashes across lawn. Dirty garden gloves litter ground.

Light fades, longer each day. On a Wednesday in my world, it's spring.

On a Wednesday My World PS: Have you joined our The Over 40 Blogging World facebook group yet? It's a great way to meet other bloggers, pick up a few tips. We're building a community of bloggers who love what they do, and would like to meet some new bloggers, and increase their reach at the same time. So if you would like to join, just click on the link above. And if you know of any blogger over the age of 40, please direct them to the group.