Garden

The Persimmon Tree

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The leaves are strewn about the foot of the tree and, if the sun is just right, the persimmon looks as if it was hung with Chinese lanterns.

Persimmon Tree by Behnaz Khanban

The tree bears fruit that is not edible until after the first frost.  The orange globes hang from bare branches and color a gloomy autumn day with their ethereal orange.  What a gift.

This time of year always finds me depressed and hopeless that the verdant mountains and abundant flowers will return.  We are all gray and black and brown.  The trees are naked and stark.  One persimmon here — up on my hill — would be a blessing.

To be like the persimmon – to produce vivid color in a black and white world.  To provide fruit when all else is spent and the earth waits for the snow cover.  To be a beautiful beacon of Mother Earth’s miracles.

I want to be a persimmon.

Dirt and gravel and ruts and prayers

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“My road is dirt and gravel and ruts and prayers, it’s terrifying in the winter and so beautiful your heart hurts in the fullness of summer.”

I wrote those words for a digital essay I did about my house.

The same road I hate in the winter, I love this time of year — particularly early mornings when the mist is still settled in the lowlands and the tall grasses sparkle in the light of rising sun. Inevitably, there will be deer with their fawns. I forget that deer are not a daily occurrence for all folks. Beautiful creatures and the little ones too make your heart hurt with their youth and beauty. There are rabbits and I can hear the peepers in the pond. If I’m lucky, the flock of wild turkey will make an appearance. They are so ugly they are beautiful – especially the Old Tom who has lived a pugilistic life to keep his harem. He struts with pride and the ladies and their young’uns follow.

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My Heart Beats a Cha-Cha

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My heart beats a cha-cha after a few moments in the garden.  Two steps back, one step forward, swing those hips, and pivot…

Watering plants and watching the arc of water make rainbows in the bright sun.  Tending the flowers.  Vegetables are too worthy, too practical, too real word for my idea of gardening.

I want the Secret Garden with a secret door.  I want lush, verdant, and bursting with flowering shrubs, vines, and plants. Irish moss.  I want fragrance and the hum of happy bees.

I want to cha-cha with the watering can.

A dreamscape.  An escape from the real world behind my morning glory covered garden gate where the Mock Orange scents the hair this time of year.

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Earthing

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Warmth and sun, oh how I need it.  I have slid the cover of the moonroof back on my car.  My commute this morning should be glorious.  The window itself is closed but light will flood the car. 

Oh, how my pineal gland needs the stimulation. Homemade vitamin D coursing through my body.  I will almost be able to hear the birdsong off in the woods as I rumble down the interstate. I will take the exit through the park today to check out the gardens and trees of the rich folk.  I expect daffodils and redbud and pear.  Perhaps the dogwood will be starting. 

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