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| Fuchsia beach roses bloom in the sand, flowers in the desert. |
Driving to
the summer house, I have a hard time keeping my eyes on the road. Bright green
vegetation has sprouted everywhere, and flowers in a spectrum of colors line
the countryside and spill from cottage gardens.
“June in New
England is like a lover’s dream made tangible. Color and scent and sound; the
hills indeed sing,” wrote Gladys Taber in “The Book of Stillmeadow.” Dawn comes
so fresh and cool, and dusk flows like a still river into the deep sea of
night. Noons are tranquil gold. There is nothing stern or sober about our
Northern countryside now; even the grey rock ledges are gently blurred with
silvery green lichens, and in the great cracks time has chipped out, a thousand
tiny plants get a precarious hold.”
Indeed, this
is the kind of day that comes to mind in the heart of winter: a benevolent sun,
brilliant blue skies, gentle winds and tranquil seas reflecting the Creator’s
handiwork.
Fuchsia beach
roses bloom in the sand, flowers in the desert.
The huge maple
tree in our front yard is so heavy with new growth that walking beneath it is
like entering a deep forest shrouded from sunlight and carpeted with thick
spongy grass.
Inside the summer
house we throw open all the windows, as the salty air comes streaming in.
Then we head
out to the shed in search of garden tools to contribute to the abundance of
nature around us. The pitchfork is missing a tine, but we begin overturning the
earth in the tiny kitchen garden at the back of the shed. The fertile soil
comes alive with pink earthworms disturbed from their hiding places. We rake,
hoe and plant the tomatoes, while the purple chive blossoms wave in the wind.
Medieval
anchoress Julian of Norwich wrote: “Be a gardener. / Dig a ditch, / toil and
sweat, / and turn the earth upside down / and seek the deepness / and water the
plants in time. / Continue this labor / and make sweet floods to run / and
noble and abundant fruits to spring. / Take this food and drink / and carry it
to God / as your true worship.”
We sit in
the shade, read and chat while we listen to the music of birdsong and the distant
sloughing of the surf.
Summer is sweet.
