Category Archives: Flowers

It appears that this purple salvia is a salve for many, healing hurt and providing comfort and succor for the birds and bees that traverse our front and back yards. Here we see a bee visiting its hospitable bloom, and the purple flower spires have also attracted hummingbirds, which was really the whole point of planting them this year. I’ve only caught one hovering near the front yard container, and Andy had one come very close to him in the back yard, a brief brush as if it was saying hello. They flit away so quickly it feels like a magical experience you’re not really sure you even had. 

There is a fuchsia plant, whose name escapes me at the moment, that has long tubular flowers which the hummingbirds adore. I couldn’t find it in the nurseries this year so I settled for the salvia, which has become an impressive show-off in its own way. Proof that being flexible is usually the best thing to be, especially when it comes to gardening. 

It was the stuff of fairy tales.

A slipper of a lady hidden away in a forest.

A quest that took me over forty years to finally execute.

And a spell cast to make sure I would never repeat where precisely I had been.

My bucket list is kept as short as possible, and it always has been, intentionally so. I add to it as I find things within grasp of execution and likely possibility. Maybe that’s not the proper way to do a bucket list, but the idea of some long list of dreams I’ll never accomplish isn’t my idea of a good time. Instead, I keep the list small and doable, allowing myself to feel a sense of accomplishment I’d never have were I to list everything out all at once.

One thing that has been on that list for years, however, is to see a lady’s slipper orchid out in its natural habitat. I’ve kept in on the list because it’s not such a far-fetched dream. In fact, I had come close a few times. As recently as last year a friend at work had found one and alerted me to its presence, but due to weather and scheduling, I couldn’t get there on time. They live in the local woodlands, so it has remained on my radar, but vaguely so, never quite in complete focus.

A couple of weeks ago someone posted that they had just found a stand of lady’s slipper orchids in the Albany Pine Preserve, and after getting some loose directions I made my way there on a sunny lunch hour. It was warmer than I realized. My body had not yet adjusted to the heat of the season, nor was it accustomed to being out in the open beyond my front and back yards. Both were exhilarating, if a little uncomfortable at first. As I walked toward the path that led into the pine woodland, I took the first step of this little quest. I don’t always appreciate or make note of the start of such journeys – large or small – but on this day I did, because if I was successful in finding the orchids, this would be the demarcation of before and after.

A field of blue lupines was in full bloom on either side of the path, an auspicious start on this particular quest for beauty. I paused there, before I had even begun, because when prettiness presents itself – especially temporary prettiness, as in a field of flowers – one must stop and pay respect. Most of the lupines I see fly by the car at 70 miles per hour somewhere along the Massachusetts Turnpike. Seeing their intricate pea-like blooms up close was a treat – a bonus in what I hoped would be a day of breathtaking sights.

Back on the path, I waved off a few pesky little flies, and drank in more sun than I’d had in months. The lupines faded behind me, but a couple lined the first curve, beneath a small stand of trees, and I stopped there in the shade. As you get older, you stop more on walks, no matter how short. I wish I’d done that when I wasn’t as old. I don’t mean that to sound as sad and regretful as it might – I just wish I’d slowed down a bit. It’s something that could hold just as true today. Even on this pretty path, I found myself charging forward, on the lookout for something still ahead…

Having hiked maybe two or three times in my life (and by hike I mean walk into the woods for about twenty minutes, tops) I didn’t have much confidence in my sense of direction, and though it sounded easy enough to find them, I wound my way around various paths, doubling back to take a different turn when I couldn’t find the orchids. I was starting to give up and head back, when I remembered walking in the woods as a kid.

It was at this time of the year when we would begin studying for final exams – a time when we would have to go back into our binders to the first lessons of class and remind ourselves of everything we had learned during the whole school year. It was a daunting task that took several days, and invariably I would burn out at some point. When that happened, and when the sun still beckoned at 7 PM, I’d step away from the books and binders and steal into the backyard, nimbly navigating my way down the steep bank behind our house, stepping gingerly among ferns and mushrooms and crossing a street into a thicker forest, where I knew there were patches of jack-in-the-pulpit plants, and a rare maidenhair fern. There were daylilies on the edge of the woods, closer to the ditches that held more water, but they wouldn’t bloom for a few more weeks. Out in the woods the worries of schoolwork flitted away. My breath came easier, my heart-rate slowed. In the dappled sunlight, I found a place of peace.

In the pine preserve, I rediscovered that feeling. As soon as I relaxed, and my eyes adjusted to the subtleties of the forest floor, I let go of the nagging notion of direction and let the siren’s call of the lady slipper orchid alert me to her presence.

There, in a sea of pine needles and pine cones, slightly obscured by dead branches and new oak trees throwing out green leaves, I saw my first lady slipper. It was both smaller and larger than expected. I stepped carefully off the path and deeper into the wooded area, where suddenly a wave of them appeared around my feet, scattered here and there in haphazard fashion. An entire colony spread before me, as if they had just decided to appear by magic. I was entranced.

Very few things meet great expectations.

Very few bucket-list items end up being all that one hopes they will be. 

This very first brush with the lady’s slipper orchid – this unexpected embrace by the sublime – met my expectations, thrilling beyond what I’d only ever imagined in my head. 

Secluded from the rest of the world, a world at odds with itself and a world sick with so much, I felt an enormous release, even if I knew it was fleeting. I stopped there, inhaling the scent of the pines, the earthiness that emanated with help from the heat of the day, and took in the bewitching scene of these lovely ladies. They danced their dance in the middle of the afternoon, and allowed me to watch for a little while. 

Reluctantly, I walked quietly out of their circle of beauty, returning to the path from which I had come, and it was like a veil suddenly descended behind me. I looked back and didn’t see them anymore, nor could I tell you where I might find them if I wanted to return. I was not unhappy to be under such a spell. There is an added element of beauty when some things are kept secret, when only you have been afforded a glimpse behind the veil. 

Maybe it took this long to be accepting of their mystery, to not want to take them with me when I left, to marvel at their exquisitely enchanting blooms and hear their whispered charms and walk away with only a sense of greater calm, of greater appreciation for what beauty the world still holds. 

Keeping things light on the blog front this week is this peony post. Not much more to say, other than wish you were here to sniff them.

It’s easy to go overboard with the wealth of garden flowers on display now. Everyone is doing it, to judge by FaceBook and Instagram. In light of that, I tend to go the opposite way with my bouquets, keeping them simple and almost minimalist at this time of the year. This is a perfect example of that, as a single peony and dogwood branch comprise the whole of this arrangement, if it can even be designated as such.

When there is so much to see and do outside, I think it’s better to maintain a quieter atmosphere within the home. Summer is about to arrive, and with it all the noise and fanfare of the sunny season. We will need a space for silence and contemplation.

For me, flower bouquets are more important and necessary in the middle of winter, or when things turn gray and barren in late fall. The indoors remains a respite of peace and calm when the weather is sometimes too nice and hot outside, and with the cacophony of impending summer on full, I find little bouquets of simplicity a way of keeping things calm inside.

The single globe of allium that remains in the garden finished its much-too-brief blooming cycle last week, but I’m a bit backed-up on blog posts, so you’re getting to enjoy its architectural magnificence now. Spacing out such beauty is a boon right now, as I find myself stepping away from the computer and online world more and more every day, and it’s been much better for the soul. That’s not a bad direction in which to head. In service of that, take this brief blog post as a gift and go find some silence and peace. In fact, take the day. I’ll be back on Saturday morning. 

(If you really want something to read, visit this post, in which every single word is a different link.) 

Along with the lilac, lily-of-the-valley is one of those old-fashioned plants with whom most people of a certain age carry some sort of happy childhood memory. I’m not different from most people in that regard, and these rugged little perfume powerhouses remind me of my grandmother, who loved their scent so much she had all her bath products tinged with it. (It made gift-giving a snap since she always appreciated anything with their sweet perfume.)

They’ve been in their glory for the past two weeks, coinciding with the lilacs to provide a two-tiered fragrance combination that is the epitome of spring. In our backyard we have a patch of ‘Miss Kim’ lilacs from Andy’s Mum, and nearby a patch of naturalized lily-of-the-valley that came from I don’t remember where. The latter, in the typical invasive nature of the species, has colonized several areas of the yard since we moved in almost twenty years ago, and as much as I love the flowers, I’ve had to be rather ruthless with their encroaching rhizomes. It’s been a battle for a while now, though I usually let them have their flower show before cutting them back without mercy. Gardening isn’t for the weak of heart.

The foliage remains handsome and clean through the entire summer, and in fall it will occasionally turn a light yellow before disintegrating into papery wisps come the end of winter. In truly wretched conditions, it may prove more manageable and easy to control – a dry shade will eventually take its toll, but it’s nothing some moisture and a good topping of manure won’t turn around in a few short weeks. If you’re looking to coddle a few pips or get a large going from a small one, manure is also key, as is evenly moist but well-drained soil.

There is a pink variety that I have yet to see in person, and it sounds delightful, especially if used in a bouquet. Speaking of which, it takes a great deal of back-aching work to garner enough stems for a proper bouquet, but it’s worth it when the perfume fills a room.

When many of us are wisely taking precautions by limiting our travel and visits to family, we look for ways to connect through memory and sensory experiences that bring back loved ones who are distant or even gone forever. Such was the case of this bouquet of lilacs, which I picked for Andy in the hopes of reminding him of happy memories with his Mum, who gifted us with the original plant from which we now reap these armfuls of flowers.

A single vase is enough to fill a room with their sweet perfume – and these have other happy memories associated with them. They used to greet us every Memorial Day weekend in Ogunquit when we’d first step into our room at the Ogunquit Beach Inn. A stand of the traditional, old-fashioned New England variety lined the driveway, and if we stood on our roof-deck we could almost reach over and touch the lavender-hued blooms. The fragrance carried on the breeze – the quintessential perfume of spring, of hope, of welcome and warmth.

This year, the bouquet reminds us of those happy times, and the loss of them as well. Not in a sad sense, really, more a calming and reassuring presence of people and places we’ve known, and times touched by love and merriment. 

The genus Tulipa has been captivating growers and flower appreciators for generations. I remain charmed by their colorful, if brief, showing every May, and their slightly spicy scent that has yet to be accurately embodied in a perfume. It’s for the best. Treasures like that are more beloved for their elusive and temporal nature. That said, fragrance is secondary to the visual impact these bulbs produce, which is usually best the first year after they are planted. Some reliably perennial varieties have been produced, but I still enjoy these in other gardens rather than my own. Too many rodents would feast on them if I were to put them into the ground, and I couldn’t do that to a bulb that once caused a world frenzy. 

For the past few years, I’ve passed this same azalea in full bloom in a little side corridor of downtown Albany, and it always thrills. Not having spent anywhere near as much time as I typically do downtown thanks to New York on PAUSE, I’ve missed this sort of excitement – the color play of hot pink with the vibrancy of its green leaves. It is a stunning combination – an inspiration on so many levels.

These annual reminders of spring are getting noticed a bit more this year, maybe because I haven’t seen them on such a daily basis, or maybe because I’m seeing things in a way that I used to see them before grown-up concerns in life got in the way. 

This will be a quiet post, in a Sunday of quiet posts. We’re at that point, I suppose. If you’re lucky enough to be in the vicinity of a lilac bush in bloom, I implore you to pause whatever you’re doing (even if it’s reading this post – I’ll be here when you return) and go take a deep inhalation of its glorious perfume. It is the scent of spring, the aroma of hope, the fragrance of happy nostalgia. If you had a childhood where lilacs played any part, they probably have similar connotations. For Andy, they remind him of his mother.

I watched as he walked over to the lilac bush we’ve had since we moved into our home, a gift from his departed Mum. That single lilac has multiplied into a couple of stands over the years. Sometimes there is a bountiful bunch of flowers, other times the flowering is spare and sparse. The one constant is the fragrance – always the same, always redolent of our childhoods, of innocent memories. He stopped and breathed in their perfume.  There were happy memories in the scented air.

Lilacs remind me of my Mom as well, as they would always be blooming for Mother’s Day. I’d sneak out the night before and wrangle them from their gnarled stands, carefully cutting the stems and putting them in water as part of her gift presentation the following Sunday morning. We also had several groups of them on and near our property, so they reminded me of childhood and the first flush of spring – always a relief after the dour darkness of winter.

The day’s sun begins its slow descent. It lingers longer now, extending its warmth and light, delaying the day second by second. Blue sky backs the cloud of lilacs hovering near Andy’s head as he captures a photograph. The songs of birds mingle with the chirps of chipmunks. Nature has been in a good mood, and we are grateful for this. Sundays should be about gratitude.  

If this pretty little plant was more rare, more delicate, or more elusive, it would be highly valued and desired. Instead, its ubiquitousness and hardiness, and its ability to compete in our lawns, as given it the name of weed – and not the fun kind either. This is the common dandelion, with its sunny multi-petaled bloom, bright green serrated foliage, and, later, those whimsical seed-heads waiting for the wind to parachute them away. It’s not entirely ugly, it just gets a bad rap. And maybe part of it is deserved. No one likes an invasive species that doesn’t stay within its prescribed bounds, but where the world be without its rebels and rule-breakers? Maybe the dandelion just needs a better PR rep, a proper promotional campaign illuminating all its desirable qualities. 

The world is turning on its head. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I shudder to even tempt the powers-that-be to answer that right now. Maybe when the apocalypse comes the only things left will be cockroaches and dandelions. And Cher. There will be beauty in survival, just as there is beauty in the dandelion.

Every year I promise to sprinkle forget-me-not seeds about the backyard, and every year I forget. 

There is a message in such madness, but I’m too tired to figure it out. 

It’s too soon in the week to be so exhausted. 

It’s only fucking Tuesday for fuck’s sake.

And it’s only May.

Maybe the cold nights are getting to me. 

Maybe Tuesdays just suck.