Surely the birds would know if fairies were hiding among them.

 

Potions, spells, and fairies hiding in the garden shadows—she brushed the thoughts away, watching them take flight on the faintest passing breeze. It was the softest childhood hope, one she had believed in deeply but ultimately outgrew with a heavy, quiet disappointment. Sitting in silence on a patio chair stacked three cushions high, she listened to the merriment of goldfinches and Carolina wrens busy among the Blackhaw viburnums. The shrubs were heavy with berries and little else. Surely, she thought, the birds would know if fairies were hiding among them.

Her mind wandered as softly as the clouds gathering overhead. The only impression reaching her heart was that all things are revealed in their own time; she would allow herself to feel, yet remain patient for a magic that would most likely never come to pass. If ever there was a time she needed an all-knowing voice to whisper into her ear, “I’ve got this handled,” it was now. But no one had her back. Only sweet nothings had ever been whispered into her ears.

She sighed. It was a warm day, and the teasing breeze seemed to bind her to the chair, keeping her from escaping back into the cool sanctuary of her home. Before her lay empty plates with traces of fresh peaches and croissant crumbs—the remains of a cozy breakfast for one. She ignored them, slipping instead into daydreams of nothingness.

Suddenly, two mockingbirds swooped in from the driveway in a dizzying, tumbling flight dance over the top of the old viburnum. Turning toward her in a synchronized plunge, they zoomed through the air, barely clearing the top of her patio umbrella. Back and forth they swirled around each other, their wings fluttering in a breathless rhythm. Their colors—slate, soft grey, buff, and white—blurred into something almost angelical. They soared over and around the viburnum, then landed unexpectedly on the corner railing of the deck. Through the tall Liatris stems standing in the corner flowerpot, they stared mockingly at her.

Within seconds, they rose again in a flurry of wings, chasing each other in a wide arc. At the peak of their flight, they dove into the chaotic tangle of the berry-laden viburnum, settling into a sudden, breathless stillness for a bit of berry picking.

The sweet hush that followed felt as though nature had playfully, irreverently answered her unspoken question: Do fairies actually exist?

She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and exhaled a long, slow sigh. Just as a wave of foolishness washed over her, a frog hiding in the garden shadows bellowed out a trio of chirps right on cue, as if thoroughly delighted by the joke.

Metallic Green Sweat Bee

on

Aster Paten (Clasping Aster)

“A poor old Widow in her weeds
Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds;
Not too shallow, and not too deep,
And down came April -- drip -- drip -- drip.
Up shone May, like gold, and soon
Green as an arbour grew leafy June.
And now all summer she sits and sews
Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows,
Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet,
Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit;
Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells;
Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells;
Like Oberon's meadows her garden is
Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees.
Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs,
And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes;
And all she has is all she needs --
A poor Old Widow in her weeds.”

― Walter de la Mare, Peacock Pie 

Pink Turtlehead

with

Common Eastern Bumblebee

Rollicking Terrier barking at the wind while cloud chasing.

Poor moralists! 

To miss so much of the joy of life; 

to deny oneself the pleasure 

(to mention only one among many) 

of reclining lazily on one's back 

in a snap-dragon, 

watching the little white clouds 

sail past 

upon a sea of blue... 

~A. A. Milne, "The Case for the Artist"

 Tamely to state that the sun was shining hotly upon us does not even begin to express an idea of the blazing, panting, almost shriveling radiance which poured over us in central Tennessee that unwinking August noon.

~Marion Hill, McAllister's Grove, 1917 [altered]

The Song of Wandering Aengus

      ~ William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,  

Because a fire was in my head,  
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,  
And hooked a berry to a thread;  
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,  
I dropped the berry in a stream  
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor  

I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,  
And someone called me by my name:  
It had become a glimmering girl  
With apple blossom in her hair  
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands,

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

I woke today with the deep, resonant aches of a lifetime long lived. Yet, sliding open the glass patio door, the heavy feeling vanished into the refreshing, sixty-five-degree early morning tranquility.

Breakfast, as always, brought its familiar comfort: crisp, seed-filled crackers topped with rich almond butter and sweet blueberry preserves, all accompanied by a steaming cup of English Breakfast tea. On other days, the ritual shifts to avocado toast and fresh fruit—but today, this warm, simple routine is exactly the gentle grounding I need to ease into the rest of my day.

My arthritic hands still ache from moving heavy objects two days ago. No matter how seductive the garden appears, I am choosing to remain indoors and give them a few more days to rest. It seems to be a recurring theme for me lately: just when things finally start looking up, they take a turn for the worse.

Managing chronic pain while on a blood thinner like Eliquis has been very difficult, especially when the safer alternative, Tylenol, does not work for me.  It is frustrating to feel stuck without the relief Ibuprofen gave me.

My lush firm bed has been trying to kill me for months, as it is not lush enough, and as for my neck pain, I am still looking for that elusive cervical pillow that will provide the perfect relief for my all too short neck.  I’m on a mission this next month to find solutions to my problems.  Wish me well.

My beloved outdoor dining table claimed only two days of my life during this intensely hot month, yet within that brief window, a new story emerged. It began while I was reading last year's autumn issue of Bella Grace; an article titled “Beyond Spells & Potions” immediately caught my attention. Then, in the middle of August—an exceptionally late time for mockingbirds to mate—I found myself in the perfect place at the exact right moment to witness their breathless ritual unfold. To complete the narrative, the timely croaking of my favorite frog arrived just a bit earlier in the day, providing the perfect ending.

My garden will thrive in the quiet rain of this afternoon’s unexpected thunderstorm as I close the book on this day’s writings. Peaceful moments like this give us all a quiet space to rest and dream.

May you be cozy and safe, like a warm hug,

Yvonne