Southern Beauties - with a Maine Interlude

Imagine being a honeybee crawling on a fragrant gardenia. 

Gardenia fireworks - the shrub exploded into bloom almost overnight. 

Here we have a dramatic transition of subject, from the closeup views of a quarter-acre suburban garden to ....

the wild beauty of a rural Maine island in Casco Bay. 

 I slightly expanded the definition of backyard photos while in Maine. The bay with its changes in tides and winds and weather and sun draws me to it inexorably. It teaches me things 

that I cannot articulate. 

I try with the camera to evoke the mysterious beauty. I fail, of course, but I do not care. Life is happening according to rhythms that we cannot fathom or capture. Somehow that is a relief, a prayer.

But I am drawn to share the beautiful, and here's a bit of what I saw. 

A view from the walk to the stairs leading down to the beach.
This is one of the oldest cottages on the East End of the island.

The evening sun lights up the bay, seen from the porch of our cottage. 

High tide breaks on the ledge at the point.
How many hours (days) have I spent on this point I cannot say.  

Sunset at the wharf as seen through a lobster trap.
Lobstermen were just beginning to put in their traps for the summer. 

Twilight and eider ducks with their babies on the bay near the point. 

The beach at low tide. The rockweed has a beauty of its own,
and is home to all sorts of sea life. 

Eastern phoebes nested on the rafter of the front porch.
This phoebe alit in a lilac bush not long after fledging. 

In the miracle of modern airplane travel, I was transported reluctantly back to North Carolina. The lilies (not eaten by deer) and beginning to peak were a consolation. 

This post is the fourth in a series of "10 Days" posts featuring daily photographs from my backyard.

Wordless Wednesday: Mystery Rhody

Of Pine Straw and Hellebores

Gardeners do strange things. Every year I clear leaves from the hardwood trees that shade my yard, then drive several miles to purchase pine tree refuse from a nursery and spread it on the ground. I get satisfaction from this ritual. It instantly transforms the pathways into a uniform reddish brown and sets them apart from  the garden beds, which this time of year are full of decaying leaves and a few early daffodils.

Still, the ritual seems a bit absurd. I am sure that at some future time, people will be amazed at the stupidity of Southerners who spread highly flammable pine straw all over their yards and around their buildings. But the house is going on the market Friday, so this year is not the year to disdain norms of appropriate appearance.

Since I am choosing not to rebel against the realtor who has filled my bathrooms with white towels we can't touch and banished most of the lamps to the shed, I will speak out against the flower breeders who have corrupted one of my favorite flowers.  Hellebores, or Lenten rose, are the joy of my garden in late winter.

Hellebores were born to face down, like bells. They evoke modesty and mystery, with their soft pinkish-purplish white petals.

But our culture doesn't value reserve. People who are loud and outspoken are more entertaining on TV. We like our flowers obvious, too. (Have you noticed the trend toward extremely large blooms on ordinary annuals?) So nurseries are now filled with freakish hellebores with flowers that open upwards.

Hellebores don't look good with their stamens showing - they're unusually plain. So I have none of these expensive freaks. All of my hellebores are descended from one parent. Here is mama hellebore.

I love my hellebores because they're really not mine. They grew from seeds I didn't sow and plants I didn't do anything to care for. Here's how to grow hellebores:

1) Wait until they sprout under the parent plant.
2) Thin the seedlings.
3) In a year or so, transplant them into bare spots in the garden.
4) Ignore them for years.

Hellebores take about four years to bloom. That's another thing I appreciate about hellebores - they refuse to accommodate themselves to our need for instant gratification. Appreciate hidden beauty, they say. Marvel at nature's fecundity. Slow down. Wait for transformation. Live on nature's time, not human time.

Tree of Life

Note: This post is featured in Festival of Trees #62, hosted by Kate Natick of Beyond the Brambles. 

I wish words could express, or a photo convey, the charm of fireflies glowing in the rain. The magic of watching fireflies dissipates as soon as I pick up the camera and try to track them through the viewfinder.  But perhaps it's best that many of nature's mysteries elude capture. It reminds us that we are not the center of everything, that wild things dance to music we do not hear.

Sometimes, if my heart is open, I hear the whispers of trees. The trees that speak to me are usually old, twisted, scarred or growing in unfavorable places. One young sycamore tree captured my heart last winter, and every few weeks I pay it a visit. It grows, appropriately, on New Hope Creek. I loved it before I ever saw it clothed in leaves, because it grows in solid rock in the middle of the stream.

The young sycamore tree speaks to me of resilience, of the will to live that thrusts its roots through rock to reach the water. It speaks of grace, of life that overflows in the most surprising places. It speaks of creativity, of abundance, of the love of a creator who wants life to flourish everywhere.