Ever Changing - Ever Beautiful

While in the garden this afternoon, intent upon cramming just a few more heart's desire plants into the little moon shaped crescent that contains a few plants from the Lost Garden, but more and more that travel home from the local plantland, in guilty secrecy.....

Of course the plants we so lovingly dug in last year have increased in beautiful green girth and height. Where I put pots to fill in empty spaces the trailing perennials have escaped into the garden and provide a groundcover in the most unexpected places.

And I am neither speaking to, or about the Yarrow in case we should get too familiar and it will affect the devastating action I am going to have to inflict on them. Yarrow is lovely, and the beautiful muted shades of rose and creams and yellows are pleasing, but it is a naughty plant and doesn't know its place!! Which is definitely not in amongst the peonies, the iris, the shastas, and in the midst of any other plant that takes its fancy. Or along the edge of the path, where last year's alyssum are bravely trying to volunteer.

Every day in the garden is different.

The gorgeous pink tulips gradually spread their petals into heart catching maturity, but they have faded now and it is the turn of the iris to provide the spectacular spots.













The little baby peony tree was a vision for a few days, but has settled down now to making roots and growing a good strong trunk and limbs.

Everywhere small plants are opening small blooms, and big plants are spreading and showing off green muscle - twice as big as they were last year. The little clump of Lambs Ear has expanded into a large soft grey mound, pushing at the peony bush planted next to it. Our landscaping grandson looks askance at the crowded conditions, shakes his head and gives advice that unfortunately is a year too late.

I think that this garden will fulfil its loveliness by being a "sharing" garden - in the meantime it gives me great joy to see this wonderful symbiotic relationship we have with each other....

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in His heaven—
All's right with the world



These words of Robert Browning echo the feeling in my heart and my spirit is lifted this morning, beyond belief!!

Some mornings are like that - I suppose you have to be a morning person to experience this euphoria, but some mornings are just filled with the rightness of things, and the joy of living, and I give thanks for the blessings that daybreak brings.

Mother o’ Mine

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o’ mine!

by Rudyard Kipling


I am going back a long way with this one,
- a long, long way back!!

For a number of years while I was growing
up and attending St. Faith's Anglican Church
in Edmonton, this was the poem that depicted
Mothers' Day!

THE CANON (the Reverend Canon C.F.A. Clough)
was the rector at St. Faith's.  He was
one of a number of Church of England
Ministers who came to serve in Canada
in the early twenties, and went on to
fill many posts as a Padre in the
Second World War, a leader and organizer
of the Western Division of the Boy Scouts,
and a rector who cared passionately about
his congregation, and nurtured them through
the years of the depression with a generous and
sharing
spirit.

Was he a good preacher?  That I do not know,
but when he married Husband and I on the 12th
of May, 1945, his only words of advice were
"Bear and Forebear" and they have served us well
all these many years.  Short enough to be
remembered and practical enough to be applied
to any situation!

I remember him and Mrs. Clough for many tender
and loving reasons, - I remember his
frown as he turned during his sermon to
quieten the choir behind him.

And I remember him for his unfailing recitation
of this poem, year and after year,
when Mother's Day rolled around.

It seemed like a very dramatic thing for
a mother to have to do, and spoke to
the probable rascality of her wayward son.
But it also spoke to the unfailing
love of a mother for her children -
a love that dwells deep in the heart and is
not easily ousted.