A most glorious day.
Blue skies with magnificent white clouds floating by,
Sometimes obscuring the sun, leaving a chill in the air.
Sunlight illuminates every color of green. Overwhelmingly green.
Every flower blossom exudes fragrance on the air,
Passing by just to give a whiff, of pleasure.
The mottled ground, shadows of quivering leaves.
The Bush Tits flitting, where else? In the bushes.
I’m mesmerized. I cannot move from this chair.
What if I miss a moment?
Today I sat and watched the bees drinking at the “bee bar” and gathering pollen from the lavender, the gladiolus, the sweet William, the kiwi, apples, the lily’s and more. One guy caught my eye.
He watched as other bees entered a particularly attractive squash blossom. Once the unsuspecting bee got deep within, this guy… (I don’t know if it was a guy or not, but I suspected as much, as his seeming thuggery led me to believe so) followed him or her in from behind.
Within seconds, he dragged the other bee out of the blossom, slammed it on the ground, gave it a good going over, released it, then both flew away. In seconds the scene was repeated.
Either this was characteristic of territorial behavior, violent love making or a rape. I couldn’t tear my eyes away until the brutality was too much for me to continue to witness. 😂
It’s a hot start to July.
The garden is heavy.
The day lily’s bow towards the porch and face up to the sun.
The climbing roses pull-down the trellises.
Those roses that climb the lilac, have bent the branches to block the door.
A million apples pull and arch the columnar,
And the espalier reaches for the ground.
While the jasmine, heavy and fragrant, lies upon the grass.
It’s just past noon on the summer solstice.
For days it’s been cool and raining.
Everything is just a bit damp.
While the temperature is climbing,
The hammock is calling.
I answer the call and lay down,
and I gaze upwards.
The sky is so blue it’s an impossible shade of purple.
The leaves are every shade of green,
From black where little light can reach,
Under the dense branches,
To chartreuse where the leaves shine against the sky,
Almost translucent where sunlight amicably tries to penetrate.
I think I’ll just lie here for a while.
After all, the warmth and beauty are mesmerizing.
On my walk today and smelling roses, nary a one had a fragrance.
Give me an old fashioned rose any day with fragrance and thorns. Let my nose be delighted and my fingers pricked.
Though beautiful, I’d never plant a rose that’s been stripped of its birth right.
When we were kids, Dad said we had to choose one of the many gardens in the backyard to keep weed free.
Mom worked nights and so slept during the day. On weekdays we were in school but on the weekends Dad was home and he liked to keep us busy. He was a big believer in chores. In the cold months we usually had to help with the dusting or other house work but in the summer we had chores outside.
Of all the gardens, I chose the garden underneath the nook windows that had a row of Japanese Quince. This side of the house faced North and so was generally shaded by the house. It seemed to be the perfect environment for the Japanese Quince. It was always damp under the bushes. A little bit of dark green moss grew on the surface of the dirt.
In the Spring, the bushes broke forth in riotous blossoms. They were, what I thought was a perfect shade of pink, with a hint of orange giving them a deep hue of salmon.
Nothing grew underneath the hard stems covered in wicked thorns. The moss did a good job of acting as mulch creating a weed free environment. You would only need to get close to the bushes for those thorns to seemingly reach out and grab your hair or your clothes. If you were that unlucky you would probably end up with a tear in your sleeve or end up crying trying to untangle your hair from the thorn.
It was strange that a child would prefer these bushes to any of the other flower gardens in the yard. But I loved them and I love them to this day.
And now that I look back on that time, I think it was not at all strange that Dad would let me choose a garden that needed no weeding. You were the best dad in the world, Dad.
This morning’s weather reminds me of when I was younger. It shows just how Portland I am.
It’s grey everywhere except for the explosion of some small Spring flowers. It’s cold. It’s raining but not pouring but it’s constant.
The wind is blowing. It’s blowing hard enough that I can hear the bells hanging on the porch.
The trees are still barren with just small buds of green showing. The exceptions are the Magnolia and Tulip trees that have full blooms, now drooping and dripping. The Japanese quince, stiff and thorny, is showing pink.
I walked the dog and I was reluctant to come back into the house. But Yum Yum was wet (her least favourite state) and ready for her treats.
Now, I’m sitting in my room and the rain is tapping on the windows. The big and old trees are swaying slightly against the wind.
I can hear the heater motor and see the fake fire inside my electric stove. Somehow warming.
The cat is sleeping on my bed so there’s no reason to make it up. She has made beautiful swirls in the blankets.
It’s very dim in my room and I don’t want to turn on any lights. I like this gloom and deep shadowed corners that are inviting and welcoming.
I think I will have a cup of tea and a little bit of dark chocolate and slices of the orange sitting in a ramen bowl.
I don’t miss the invasion of the bright rays of the sun that is hiding behind the charcoal clouds as they scud by, pushed along by the wind. There is a brightness in the far distant horizon where the clouds have thinned.
I might even doze a bit today. The gentle pitter and the patter of the rain are the perfect lyric and rhythm that can enduce slumber for any troubled mind.
I’m held in the arms of Portland weather and memories. Let the world go by. I’m not interested.
It’s the Pacific Northwest, Portland. We have dry, hot winds from the east out of the Gorge blowing in from the desert-like High Steppes.
Everything is tinder dry and crackling. The ground forms fissures like open mouths waiting for a drop of water to quench its thirst.
For the first time, I’m hearing the Cosanti bell ringing more, as our porch, where it hangs, faces east. It’s so lovely, but I’m wishing for wet, Fall weather with hard winds coming from the southwest, heavy with water from the ocean.
We need days of rain… days and days, maybe even weeks… months. We need cooler, cold, temperatures to make the sap run into the roots of the trees, so the leaves can change color and drop to the ground in soggy layers. This persistent summer-like heat feels strange, unnatural, even.
People… we look at each other in shorts and t-shirts, eating out of doors at sidewalk cafés, strolling after dark as if it were mid-summer. We smile uncomfortably, commenting about the strange weather, attemting to make light of something so unfamiliar.
Will it end? Will we get back to rain bouncing off the pavement, forming puddles, streaming from the roof, filling the gutters. Can we get back to running from the house to the car and into the store, school, coffee shop, trying not to get wet? Will the streams and rivers rise to flood levels again? Will children have to wear raincoats over their Halloween costumes ever again?
Can we get back to sweaters, raincoats and boots? Can we get back to complaining about the dark days and constant rain? Please.
The air is soft and heavy.
The scent of jasmine and orange blossoms.
A boy sits by the lavender.
Happy rain day, dark and grey. I love the view from my window by my bed. Our yard is so green.
I look down on the apple trees, the honeysuckle, the vine maple and the kiwi, that create an arbor covering the patio. They surround and shield us from the harsh sun and neighbors.
And I even love looking over to the neighbors flat roofed garage to watch the puddles grow and the rain drops splashing into them.
Every once in awhile a fresh breeze comes through the window bringing with it the fragrance of the wet earth and plants.
We have so many fragrant flowers like kiwi, lavender and jasmine. Someone should create such a lovely perfume. I would wear it everyday when we so easily forget summers past.
Such beauty I couldn’t imagine if I tried. Or have I?
eyeamdust 