To set things straight, the comma in the title is important. The cat is not, in fact, swinging, as you shall see.
To be honest, sometimes I wonder why I bother with trying to paint at all. This was one of those weeks. I’ve been thinking lately about taking watercolor painting lessons from an actual person, rather than trying to learn things from Pinterest and YouTube.
I dipped into my Tiny Art books recently and here’s what happened:
And this:
Then I tried my hand at painting from a photograph. The original flower was just exquisite, something that makes you say, “Of course there’s a God! Isn’t it obvious?” I’m afraid my painting doesn’t do it justice.
Are you still reading? Today, I feel that your attention is more than I deserve, but I thank you. Truly I do.
Here lie the pitiful potted petunias that started life with such sparkle and optimism in May. ‘Tis no fault of their own that they have suffered an early demise.
I find it a joyful prospect to keep them watered in May and June. When July comes, I am slowing down in my enthusiasm. I might let a day slip by and get to the watering later in the afternoon, rather than in the morning. The petunias sense my lack of commitment and feel it keenly. Once or twice I might accidentally forget altogether and run out in the morning with water and abject apologies. But they know. They know my fickle heart.
By August, the petunias are becoming a weight on my soul. “What? You need water AGAIN?” I drag my feet and bring the watering cans to the hoses for refills. “Didn’t I just water you guys?” Even with consistent watering, they are showing their age. The bloom of youth is gone. They know it. I know it.
I usually rally and make sure they don’t die off until late September when it becomes more in the natural scheme of things. But a few days ago, I skipped a whole day of watering. The thought came unbidden: “I could just quit.” Okay, maybe it was bidden. Another day went by. “I should water them, shouldn’t I? What kind of person lets their flowers just die of thirst?” Another day. And another day. I guess I am that kind of person. I’m not proud of it, but the deed is done.
Here lie the dried-up petunias, Dead before their time. I confess that I did ruin ya, Then I made a bad rhyme.
But just to cheer you up, there’s still lots of pizazz in the perennial garden where the flowers aren’t dependent on me. And the beetles are enjoying themselves a bit too much!
Here lies the dried up blog post I’ll finish it off in the morning, It’ll be just like dried up toast Gone without much warning.
I am reading a book called Reclaiming Quiet by Sarah Clarkson. The subtitle is “Cultivating a Life of Holy Attention.“ She’s a good writer and I have felt quite bathed in the beauty of her observations about what it means to seek and find God in the quiet moments. Our busy lives don’t always lend themselves to moments of silence, the way we usually think of what it means to have quiet. We have to redefine what quiet means, and make a way to find it all through our busy days.
I just read a section in which she was talking about the way we tend to mediate all our experiences through our phone cameras. She said “When I mediate the whole of my experience through my camera, whipping it out at every hint of intense or immersive experience, I’m ending the very thing I set out to record. I am jolted back to a place where I’m standing apart from the thing I want to capture. I’m no longer in the grace of the beauty I have recorded.“
I know exactly what she means. I have been enamored with cameras and photography for a long time, but there have been times when I realized I could either watch and enjoy the thing that was happening or I could take photos of it. I could not do both. This is why we hire wedding photographers so we can enjoy the wedding without having to look through a lens. And yet, how wonderful it is to have the memory-provoking photos afterward.
I always take my Nikon camera out with me to the garden bench swing. There’s not a lot new that I see from year to year, but I still take photos. I am entranced by what I see and I want to capture it. Everything in a garden points to the Gardener and I practically swoon over His artistry. But flowers aren’t people; taking photos of them doesn’t detract one bit from my immersion in the beauty.
I wonder if anyone ever had girl twins that they named Flora and Fauna? Surely somebody has done it by now. Flora probably wouldn’t mind, but Fauna (poor girl) might wish her parents hadn’t been so whimsical.
Be that as it may, I have gotten off track already. My intention is to show you some of the Flora and Fauna I’ve captured with my camera on our property lately. There might be a poem at the end, so persevere.
I think she noticed the camera and is posing for me. You tell your stories and I’ll tell mine.
Why are rabbits so adorable? It makes it hard to hate them when they eat up your lettuces and such.
I realize that this is neither flora nor fauna, but it sets the stage for what comes next, which involves fauna.
We have a perfectly good bird bath, but this bird preferred our fountain. First he got his bearings. And then…
…he took a splish-splash bath! ‘Twas quite exciting on a quiet afternoon. And now for the flora part of this tour.
The clematis are glorious! Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
Ukrainian Irises have raised their showy purple/blue heads in triumph over the perennial garden, saying “The garden party can start now!” And indeed, it has.
The Monarda is more demure, making a quiet statement of beauty.
These guys (how could I have forgotten their name?) are ready to burst into bloom.
The coneflowers are biding their time. “What’s the rush?” I heard them saying to the irises.
Flora and Fauna Are God’s primadonnas. In the backyard choir, None sing higher. With feathers and fur, And petals galore, It’s a fabulous show – Get outside and go!
I’ll probably have to delete this Blora and Bauna post in the morning.
Ah, the coming of spring… Hope is in the air, trees are putting out tiny curled up things that will unfurl into leaves, the birds are gathering for their spring chorus every morning, snow is melting, and the poets are doing their poesy thing with joy. It’s a grand time.
It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold; when it is summer in the light and winter in the shade. Charles Dickens
If you live where March comes on like that, you know what CD is talking about.
I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils; beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. William Wordsworth
Next time you’re outside on a spring day, be William Wordsworth and write about it like that.
Daffodowndilly She wore her yellow sun bonnet, She wore her greenest gown; She turned to the south wind And curtsied up and down. She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: ”Winter is dead.” A.A. Milne
That is exactly what daffodils are saying when they flutter and dance and turn their heads to one another.
In the morning, one blog post will whisper to another, “The Blog is Dead.”
The month of March is upon us, which means that I can at last put a halt to my insufficient efforts to keep the poinsettia alive. It’s time to set it free out in the wild.
Our compost heap may not look exactly like “free out in the wild,” but it’s all relative. The plant has been freed from the shackles of the green plastic pot. It has gone from our tame and dull home to a place where birds might alight next to it (or even on it!) or some little critter might scamper around its leaves. Like I said, free and wild.
I look forward to this ritual every year. The poinsettia had company this year: a dozen Valentine roses that had gasped their last breath and diminished into themselves.
And now, a bonus photo for you:
Sunrise through the trees! Looks positively molten, doesn’t it? The photo didn’t turn out the way I expected, but I ended up liking it anyway.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning after it has gasped its last breath.
I’m tempted to leave it at that and have you all wondering…what about Monday? What does she mean? Is there some hidden depth there?
Alas, no hidden depths. But it could be that there’s a poem lurking in there somewhere. Let’s see if I can find it.
Look at Monday, just look at it! What a plum assignment it has in the week, Zipping along after Sunday rest and worship. If April showers bring May flowers, Then Sunday rest brings Monday zest.
It’s Monday! Start the day with prayer, Read the Scriptures with renewed vigor, Catch up on last week’s to-do’s that didn’t get to-done, Make those dreaded phone calls to set up appointments, Do some stretches, yes, the ones you used to do daily,
Reach high, dig deep, Forget what lies behind, reach forward to what lies ahead…
Don’t forget to cut some Monday flowers, And put ‘em in a Monday vase.
Ah, Monday!
(If you wonder why I use exclamation marks so much, you should listen to me talk. Then you’d get it.)
And with that, this Monday post heads to the Tuesday morning queue of deleting.
‘Tis the season! The garden paintbox cracks open – Lovely tubes of reds and yellows, Watercolors splashed among leaves, Calling out a cheery hello to your neighbors “Hello! I’m just passing through! Happy to pose for photos!”
Don’t forget: Jesus is the reason for this season, too.
‘Tis also the season for deleting. Deleting happens.
The poinsettia said, “I’m thirsty,” But I was much too busy. The poinsettia said, “I’m dry,” But I just walked right by. The poinsettia leaves were dropping But I passed it without stopping. The poinsettia leaves turned black And I paid attention at last.
Don’t let this happen to your poinsettia.
I’ll probably delete this when the edges turn black.
