This is my front yard as seen from the master bedroom window.
I took the photo a week ago, Sunday the 18th. Since then the field of green weeds on the right hand side of the center island has been filled with little yellow flowers, flowers which gladden my heart, even though, yes, I know they are weeds. I love violets too, and apparently do not care if there are violets or clover in my lawn. Something to consider for the future, but at the moment the lawn is something green I don't have to think about. The same can be said for those areas of the garden that I am not yet ready to plant. Weeds are Mother Nature's interim plantings.
Weeds and all, the vista makes me smile. The center brown area, between the slates and the road, contains the blueberry bushes, and I hope to have small annuals beneath them, preferable to my eye over mulch, or, eventually, some form of ground cover. I am the kind of gardener that wants the beds filled with a panoply of growing things. To the right of the stones is where the three peonies were transplanted, and I am still in the process of planting Columbine and other perennials to fill the space. Something similar will take place to the left of the blueberries, in the still-weed-filled green patch. More peonies, a rose, some delphiniums — all are planned but not yet planted. I hoped for this spring but plans may have been interrupted. More about that later.
Next photo. Still looking north, slightly to the east of the first photo. This bed, along the east side of the house, was the only part of the yard I disliked when I bought the house, now it is much more my garden. Hydrangeas, coreopsis, daffodils, irises, nepeta, even a stray peony are located here and are beginning to fill in nicely. The laurel that is falling down has finally been removed, and replaced. I suppose I should update the photos, but that is not going to happen today, not for this post.
Ther azaleas between the fence and the driveway are thriving, blooming intermittently, and there are more plants to go around the curved wall near the steps to the circle, all planned and ordered before I knew the course my summer would take. If you look you will see plants lined up, awaiting new homes, in the lower portions of the top two photos. I will get to them in time. Life is like that sometimes, and I grow annoyed with interruptions, but there is nothing to do but live with them.
The top two photos were taken two days after I had a partial mastectomy for a breast cancer that showed up on my mammogram in March. Remember that week I was crying? I was crying because I had to have a biopsy, my first, and I was tired of doctors and hospitals, tired of illness and exhaustion, of broken noses and broken heart rhythms. I felt it was silly to cry over a biopsy as 80% are negative. It was as much frustration as it was fear: I was finally starting to feel good, starting to walk and work in the garden and it didn't seem fair. Well, no one ever said life would be fair.
I've gotten over that now. There is no help for it. Now I am in fight mode. It seems I have an aggressive little breast cancer but it also appears we have caught it early and my summer will revolve around chemotherapy with radiation to follow in the fall. Many women have done this before me. Many more will follow. My primary goal is beating back the invader and reclaiming my body. My body is a war zone and I cannot make predictions as to what I will or will not do, when or what I will, or will not, write.
The last photo is of an iris, a Louisiana iris, that opened the morning I had my surgery. I missed it at its peak. We had cold temperatures and it only lasted a day or two. In this photo, taken that same Sunday, two days after surgery, it is already waning, but still beautiful. I love it even as it begins to curl and fade — the grace is in the living not the perfect moment of full actualization, something ephemeral that we somehow always seem to miss anyway both in the world around us, and in our own lives. Even these photos, celebrating a past already lost in the mists, reminds me of the multi-faceted nature of every moment, reminds me of the fractal geometry of memory.
Life really isn't about what happens or doesn't happen, it is about how you chose to deal with it, or chose not to deal as the case may be. It is about where you chose to find beauty and joy, and what, when, and where you chose to let go.
Good grief I say! Enough is enough. And if I were talking to you in person I would probably say exactly what I can't write — I am going put every effort into kicking this M-F-B (imagine the swear words here) in the balls. I will knit or sew or cook when I can as these things all soothe my soul. My hands will be in the soil. I will write whenever those splintered moments of clarity arise.
Comments
17 responses to “Gardening in Slow Motion”
You always make me stop and think…about appreciating every moment in life and the challenges we all face. Your garden is the perfect metaphor for living on this earth. Take life a day at a time, appreciate the beauty you find every day, and plan for the beauty to come. I am grateful for your sharing of this particular challenge you face. Fight on.
I love reading your blog, and have followed it for a long time. But this one was hard to read. I am a 13-year survivor of breast cancer – mastectomy, chemo, radiation, Perception for another year, reconstruction. It was a slog. I was weak, tired, cursing, and crying – more than once.
But it has been over for a long time, I have healed physically and emotionally, though I have scars and other bodily changes. It won’t be easy, but you won’t be alone. Hugs today, tomorrow, and forever.
Let things go. Like vacuuming. Let it go! Dusting, who needs it? Surround yourself in a cloud of love and support from all of us who have gone before, or are struggling alongside you. We hear you.
Mardel, your writing is so lovely and I especially like your prose regarding the beautiful lily. I’m very to hear of your diagnosis and wish you all the best as you journey through chemotherapy and radiation. Sending you lots of positive energy and wishes for your recovery. I hope your garden will soothe you.
Mardel, I love reading your writings as they feel so close to my thoughts. They give me hope and smiles as I’ve struggled to understand and accept my sensitivities. I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers, and look forward to the time you feel able to do more that is currently on hold. Hugs.
I take the right off Westland, to drive thru Westmoreland, to get to my house in Westmoreland Hills. Because I love the huge trees, and lovely homes. Of course I love yours best!
I’m sorry you’ve had such a trying time this Spring. You are such a strong woman. You will do well.
Hugs!
Thank you for this and reminding me.
Thank you Carolyn. It feels good to be heard. And I will try to remember to let things go, and to silence my inner demons lest they berate me. We are part of an army of strong women.
Thank you.
Thank you Sandra, and hugs to you, always.
Hugs. Oh how I miss hugs.
Mardel – I have been following your garden journey with such enjoyment and I am so sorry it has been interrupted by this diagnosis and procedure and the treatment that must come now. Of course I wish you every bit of good luck and strength and lots of support in your fight. I would hug you were I there. xoxox.
Thinking of you. Know you are strong, but every once in a while, we strong woman just want to fold over and rest and maybe cry. Sounds like you did that and have now straightened up to deal with what one must. May the coming months not be too difficult and may you find solace in nature’s beauty.
I’m so sorry to read this, Mardel. I echo Mary — I’ve seen your strength and resilience often through your blog over many years, and been so impressed by how you’ve managed major life challenges. But sometimes we don’t want to be strong, and I hope that you continue to find space for the self-care you need, even (especially) when that means a good long cry. Holding you in my thoughts, visualizing strength and healing for you. xoxo, f
xoxox
Thank you so much Mary. I suspect there will be another cry, or two, once I get out of “deal with this now” mode, and am in the thick of it. Or not,
Thank you Frances. I know there will be at least one good cry and it will hit me when I don’t expect it. Thank you for those words holding me up, and permission to cry, which I always struggle to allow myself. I need reminding.
I have followed your blog since NY knitting days and even though we have never met, your writing makes me feel like I know you! I am so grateful you felt safe to share your latest life challenge. I am here to support if you need to vent, cry, or just relish in the beauty you have created in your home, garden, and your knitting. Be kind to yourself. You deserve it! I am cheering for you !