At night, the temperature still falls to the mid-20s F. The violas and kale don’t mind.
Last summer I grew some tall sedum plants from cuttings provided by a generous neighbor. They completely died back when winter arrived, but now, tiny rosettes of future sedum plants are appearing in spite of the cold.
I walked along the river in the forest this morning. There was something comforting about the continual flow of water as it tumbled over the rocks in the river bed — living water, fed by mountain springs high above. The river bubbled with quiet sounds of swirling water and little falls. Yet, here and there, the water paused in tranquil pools before continuing on its never-ending search for lower ground.
I looked for the wild sweet peas that I saw along the banks last May, but it was too early, or perhaps too dry. When I looked up from my search, a tree was blooming.
Finally — a morning without wind. I bring my coffee and spiritual reading into the garden, but my book remains unopened. In the trees, the birds can’t stop singing. A bee hovers over a barely visible holly blossom. The air caresses my skin as only it can do in spring. There is new life everywhere.
How can I read about God when He is at work all around me?
After working in the garden over the past few weeks, I was looking forward to sitting outside this morning and simply enjoying the view, but the day is windy and cold, so I retreated into the warmth of the house. Yet, I can enjoy the Evening Primroses from my window.
I planted them last fall after my husband helped me create a new border in the courtyard. The variety pictured above is native to Texas and Mexico, so it does well in Southern New Mexico with little or no care. The foliage charmed me all winter by staying green, and during the past week they began producing countless, paper-like blossoms that are supposed to continue through fall. The instructions warn that these plants can be quite invasive, and they did indeed spread over the winter while many of my other plants were dormant.
With foliage and blossoms like that, as far as I’m concerned, they can go for it!
The pecan trees haven’t come into leaf yet. A few stubborn nuts from last year’s crop still cling to the branches. Every spring, the pecan trees are the last to show life. Yet, they have their own stark beauty with the alfalfa and mountains in the background.
I come this way on my way to Mass, and I always enjoy the view as I turn into Watson Lane.
Spring comes late in the mountains where I spent the weekend. I took my camera wherever I went, but nothing was blooming. However, the Ponderosa Pines satisfied my desire for natural beauty, as they always do.
As I was leaving town, the local herd of elk were gathered along Hull Road. Very polite. They paused from time to time to let the cars go by. Many more were grazing along both sides of the road as I carefully continued on my way. There must have been 60 or 70 of them altogether.
Back home in the Rio Grande Valley, the violas and lobelia were in full bloom. Thank God for spring!
The garden is starting to wake up for spring. As I took this picture, it occurred to me that my chair is the most important feature in the garden. There is no point in having a garden if I don’t take time to sit in it.
As I enjoyed the intoxicating warm breeze, the birds provided a symphony of trills and chirps. I read some poetry from Dancing by the Light of the Moon by Gyles Brandreth. (Thank you thetinypotager for the recommendation several months ago.)
Fifteen minutes in the garden was all it took to completely reorient my day.
I like looking at things that are tall. When I walk, I look at the treetops (which is sometimes hazardous to my feet), and I look at the mountains. Though I love them both, the mountains provide the best food for thought. There is mystery there. In spite of all the expert climbers who have ever climbed, I am convinced there are places that no human foot has touched. I imagine treasures there, known only to the birds — a rare blossom rising from a crag in the rocks, a hidden cave that glistens with veins of gold, a hidden spring, a strange creature never previously seen.
Beyond their physical mystery, mountains remind me that there is so much more to life than I am able to discover or grasp. There is so much more in this world that I will never know. This is a source of abiding joy for me. Life is inexhaustible. There is always more. There is always hope. There is always God.