When I was a child I wanted to be three things: a florist, an artist, or Wonder Woman. None of them being viable for a boy growing up in the 80’s, I went a very different route, but somehow have managed to retain these obsessions vicariously through others (thank you Lynda Carter). Simon Lycett is another such hero, who’s carved out a name for himself as a florist, presenter and writer, and he may now add Dazzler of the Day to his wreath of laurels. Check out his fascinating website here.
While I don’t grow pansies myself, I enjoy them whenever and wherever I see them. Such pretty smiling faces almost seem to rise up to say hello. They symbolize the earliest hope of spring, standing solidly against late snows and cutting winds, and absolutely laughing off rain. On the day I caught these beauties at the nursery, some rare sort of planetary alignment was knocking all of us for a loop (scheduled to last through tomorrow, I believe) and I leave into my daily meditation a little more, reminding myself to be mindful and present in the moment so as not to overthink things.
So many lessons can be learned from the plant kingdom, and gardening has taught me many things over the years. How to be patient, how to nurture, how to prevent death, how to accept death, how to appreciate life – all the major lessons in being a good human being can be culled from the garden. I see that whenever I find a pansy’s happy face in the spring.
The first jonquil to bloom is traditionally a bashful one. Shy and hesitant, it doesn’t fully unfurl its petals right away, usually holding one of two back, keeping themselves close, similar to the way some humans cross their arms. Much of my life has been spent like this first daffodil – cautious, careful, slightly cunning. Especially at the beginning of things, when nothing is sure, nothing is sacred, nothing is certain. Safety first – safety for surety, safety for survival. There could still very easily be snow, and storms have been blowing up out of nowhere, terrifyingly fast – too fast for a little jonquil to close up its petals before they might be ravaged.
But think of all the sun it misses by playing it safe, think of the shadows it casts on itself before letting go, how much wasted time, how much wasted light. The lovely warmth of a spring day is there for the taking, for the loving, even if storms come later, even if the petals are torn, even if it’s not perfect.
There is a noble grace that comes from living for the day.
This simple crocus has always felt rather magical in the way that it just sort of pops up without advance notice and blooms, often earlier than I’m able to get out into the yard for spring cleaning. This year I almost missed it, but Andy took to opening the pool in record time when we had pair of days above freezing, and I ventured out to find it in full flower, bravely sending up its floral signal even before its foliage fully unstrapped itself.
Out of a hundred corms that I planted one fine fall, this lone crocus is the only one that survived the hungry greed of rodents in the area, somehow managing to escape their voracious hoarding habits. They often get the last laugh, as some years we’ll find the blooms felled by their nibbling before I even get a chance to grab a pic. If they weren’t so cute we’d probably shoot them.
This particular crocus is in a more hospitable section of the yard, as it has managed to come up earlier than our Lenten rose, which is usually one of the first to bloom. This year it is well behind, thanks to all the snow and cold we’ve had. I haven’t even gotten around to begin the yard clean-up which will help to show it off better, and with rain forecast for the foreseeable future, that may take a while.
For once, I’m in no rush. Things will get done as they get done, and if they don’t the garden will still find its way.
Certain flowers evoke sex in their obvious anatomy or the way they remind of various caverns and protuberances. A plump swollen section here, a vacuous hole of temptation to be filled there, and sweet perfumes and dusty pollens all conspiring to bring about fucking in some fashion.
Sex in the plant kingdom is sometimes flagrant, sometimes furtive, and always fascinating. It happens through scent, through timing, through touch and feel – an instinct and an impulse and an intoxicating allure – and all signs point to propagating survival.
Spreading seed.
Leaving legacy.
Making a mark and a mess.
The cycle of a flower – the purpose of being pretty – the sex of a moment.
The exquisite bloom of the Ranunculus isn’t celebrated as much as it should be, and I’m not sure why. Is it the name? Agreed, it’s a bit ridiculous, but what’s in a name?
What else?
The African violet is heralded as either the best beginner’s houseplant or the worst.
As with so many extremes, the truth is probably somewhere in-between.
I’ve found that the main trick is patience and a pinch of pampering.
It may seem strange, as it did to me, that white should be the primary color of choice for this winter flower arrangement from a recent gathering, but it worked in ways I didn’t have the vision to see as possible. Far from blending into the snowy background this winter has so voluminously provided, this little bouquet managed to sing its song and cut through the wintry mess with its blend of daisy-like chamomile blooms and sweetly-perfumed stalks of stock. Bright and refreshing, its accents of yellow hearts and green foliage made for more than enough freshness. Proof that the simplest bouquets are often the best bouquets.
This is not a time for muss and fuss.
It’s a time for serenity.
Simplicity.
Beauty.
Grace.
It’s almost time for winter to end.
A little preview of tomorrow morning’s greenhouse-inspired post, this is a specimen of stephanotis, sometimes called the Madagascar jasmine. Sweet of perfume and swirling of tendrils, it is a white flowered scent of summer, one of those heady tricks of the greenhouse while the snow spins wildly outside.
The holiday season sometimes demands a bit of escapism, and this blog was largely built on such notions. Calgon take me away…
While this morning’s post was tinged with an underlying tension and danger, this one is all afternoon light and golden hour goodness, because the world is dark enough without me adding to the madness and mystery. Fall will offer ample moments for darker matter – for now, for this afternoon, let us have the light of a clump of asters.
Asters are one of the most exiting parts of the blooming moment at hand. They saved the best for last, knowing full well their best light will hit right about now. They soak it up, soak it in, radiate beauty, and prepare for their winter rest. Would that we follow suit.
Perhaps it was their ubiquitous use in the floral arrangements of St. Mary’s church that made me rebel against the gladiolus from a young age, but whatever the case I’ve only warmed to this stunner in recent years. They’ve been showing up in the markets over the past few weeks, and I’ve been replenishing our prettiest vase with their various color schemes. This time it’s the warm hues of these fiery-throated beauties captured here.
Red-beards have their own fan club in certain circles, as does the gladiolus, whose colors and varieties are as varied as the daylily and iris world. The person checking me out of Trader Joe’s, where I picked these beauties up, shared with me a trick for getting them to bloom all the way to the end of their stalks: snip off the top inch or two of the tip – it can be done by carefully peeling back the outer green protective sheath so you barely notice that anything was cut. This variation on a circumcision supposedly stimulates the plant into blooming the entire length of its stalk, and based on these blooms it seems to be working.
Here’s a little tropical flower to set the tone for this hot and humid week. Summer is at hand – let us rejoice and be glad in it! When I’ve slipped into songs I once sang at religion class every Tuesday afternoon waiting for the bus to bring us home, you know things have gone slightly awry. I have no excuse, I have no reason, I have no sense of sanity anymore. But I still find prettiness around me, such as in this little purple flower, the scientific name of which escapes me, as does the common name. All names escape me. Mine would be included if it wasn’t sewn into my underwear. Just kidding. Not even I am that precious.
Wow, this Wednesday post is something. All silliness, little substance, and the world outside is wilting. Nothing makes sense anymore, and I’m tried of trying to make it so.
A purple flower is all I have – there is majesty in it, no matter how small.
There are many plants I don’t know by name, many flowers I’ve rarely seen, and I’m always excited to see a new specimen because it reminds me how wide and expansive our world is. It is thrillingly humbling – the humility a reminder of the tiny place and space we occupy and influence on this planet.
This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered the purple flowers pictured here – it feels like I’ve seen them in tropical places – maybe Florida – or some sunny climates as found in California. This particular plant was doing quite well in the warmth and humidity of this summer, draping its purple floral curtains over the edge of its pot.
It would be simple to find out what this plant is. It would be easy to solve this floral mystery. These days, I find more wonder and joy in the not knowing. Growing older, one learns to accept that they do not know it all, that they cannot know it all.
The best bouquets are those that manage to look that most elusive way: effortless.
That is the greatest secret of a successful bouquet.
Unfortunately, that effortless, carefree look requires more than just plopping some stems in a vase and letting gravity take its course. But happily not much…
A decent bouquet requires a light touch. Placing each stem and evenly spacing them from each other is the worst sort of bouquet, and we’ve all been guilty of it. Instead, I try to make an easy, sometimes unexpected focal point, and groupings of flowers that play off that focus and try to move the eye elsewhere. Color can be a way of drawing the eye as well – colors that play off each other, or echo that focal point. Don’t forget the importance of foliage, which can be a focal point in itself, but may also break up the color and architecture of the flowers.
Romanticizing this heat is an indulgence as it’s still rather new. Should it persist into August, we won’t have such a kind view of it. With rain due later in the week, let’s embrace the sun, and find ways to find coolness, such as in the hues of these blue and violet flowers.
The simplest way to combat the heat – or at least to attempt tolerating it – is to slow down. This is not the time to exert yourself with activity or frenzied motion. The common trio of ‘calm, cool and collected’ hasn’t lasted for its inaccuracy – each feeds into the other.
I will bring that energy into the office for the next few days, because with intention comes reaction.
So much of summer wants to shout and scream and jump up and down.
The quiet parts are what keep us cool.
