There's a reason there are gardens in monasteries and it goes beyond feeding the monks. A garden feeds the soul.
With the spring finally giving us more than snow, rain, sleet and chills, I am finally back in the middle of my flowers: weeding, pruning, transplanting, and counting up my floral treasures. There are forty different flower beds in my domain. I was able to clear ten of them before the blizzard, then all activity came to an end until this week. Now I must finish each and every plot by the end of May and get in the vegetable garden as well.
It is a labor of love as I rediscover plants I'd forgotten were there. Today it was the bed adjacent to the driveway. Over there are the phlox, next to them the leaves of the Siberian iris, spurge, yellow loosestrife, peony, spiderwort, and red monarda. And that's just one bed!
I found violets and grape hyacinth beginning to bloom. Lamium is in bud. I worried about the current bush and the yellow rose. Did they come back? Yes, they did as did the pink rose I transplanted from a neighbor's yard after he died. He originally planted it for his wife who died several years before. It needed to be saved from someone who likes lawn more than flowers.
The cherry tree will be in bloom in another week. The lilac starts a few days after that. The pear and apple trees will follow a week later. I know all of this from the bloom charts I keep from year to year.
I am ruthless with weeds. Out they come by their roots, to be thrown in a heap to be taken to the city dump next week. All frustrations, angers, and anxieties go with them.
I make mistakes. Every year, I begin to pull out plants before I recognize their leaves. This year I was mean to Sweet William, a flower I love. Oh well, I have more seeds and will re-sow. I can't manage without him.
I come away from my garden with an aching back and sunburned arms, but a mind refreshed.
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