I can’t see St Franics!!!

“The deeds you do may be the only sermon some persons will hear today”
― Francis of Assisi

(the unruly bushes covering poor St Francis / Julie Cook / 2017)

I am the keeper of the shrubbery.

Add to that, I’m really too old for shrubbery.

Meaning I plant it…I prune it, I sheer it, I chop it…
and somedays, I’d just like to burn it to the ground.
Think 5 acres that need tending to….as I’m knocking on the door of 60.

Usually I do a complete maintenance overhaul of the yard each spring…
But this past spring saw me serving vigil with Dad…
Then following his death it was a matter of sorrow and picking up the pieces.
There wasn’t much energy for bushes.

I’m still picking up the pieces, still dealing with his dealings…and some days,
I just can’t do much but still just be sad…
Throw in losing Aunt Maaaathaa in July and well…the yard…
well it went to the wayside….to the way way way side….
kind of like my get up and go.

Too much sadness has a way of stealing that get up and go.

I usually trim the shrubbery twice a year…first in the spring—
then I like to tidy up things come fall, readying everything for the winter.
Think Martha Stewart sans all the helpers….

In order to put out some fresh pinestraw, the bushes need to be trimmed.
Did I mention those two pesky blown out discs from last year…
well, they’re still blown and they make getting up and going none too easy.

And oh, and did I mention another hurricane is coming?

The fresh pinestraw is to be delivered mid week, the hurricane is coming Sunday and Monday… a two day event of winds and rain, rain and rain…of which the rain
is most needed this time of year.

All of which meant today was the day in which the trimming and cutting
had to get done…
otherwise the bushes would take over the house and no amount of fresh pinestraw
could hide that little fact.

You know it’s bad when St Francis has been consumed by the bushes.

Throw in one electric hedger….

and St Francis is now free…..

Which reminds me, the feast day of St Francis was Wednesday, Oct 4th.

Most folks, those of the faith as well as those not, think kindly of Francis.
He loved the animals don’t you know.
And who doesn’t like someone who loves the animals?

Yet there was much more to Francis than a love of animals.

I’ve written about Francis before.

And since I’m now past exhausted and very sore from my pruning and freeing Francis
from the bushes, I’ll keep this short and sweet….

Francis wasn’t always about loving animals.

No, Francis wasn’t always the peaceful loving monk with the funky haircut
(tonsure) that we know and love today…

Rather Francis was all about loving the world.

He was a spoiled rich kid who loved to party.
He was what we might call a bit of a ’rounder’…
meaning a wild young man given to a wanton life of drinking too much,
chasing women too much and working way too little.

Sounds very familiar…much like a modern day millennial….

Yet Francis found this sort of life of his…lacking.
As in empty.

Despite being very popular, a hearty partier and a well dressed dandy,
Francis felt less than.

There was a heaviness to his being…one he just couldn’t understand.
An emptiness that no amount of parties, or money or friends could fill.

And then God literally called his name….

Isn’t that great…???!!!

That God can see into the wantoness of the worldly something actually redeeming…???!!
Something more than and something He wants!!!

Meaning…there is truly hope for us all!!!

“I have been all things unholy.
If God can work through me,
He can work through anyone.”
Francis of Assisi

I have swept away your offenses like a cloud,
your sins like the morning mist.
Return to me,
for I have redeemed you.”
Isaiah 44:22

mishappen and now missing

Beware the politically obsessed.
They are often bright and interesting, but they have something missing in their natures;
there is a hole, an empty place, and they use politics to fill it up.
It leaves them somehow misshapen.
Peggy Noonan

(something has been nibbling / Julie Cook / 2016)

I don’t know about you, but something seems to be not only a little misshapen, but now, totally missing….

A couple of weeks ago I bought a pretty healthy new little shrub, from the local nursery, in hopes of filling in a gap in one of the shrub beds.

I don’t know, but something doesn’t look right.
It looks shorter to me…
Less full…
lopsided…
depleted…
as in, something seems to be missing…

I had my suspicions.

Walking over the yard, to survey the crime scene, I found a couple of telling signs…
as in indicators as to perhaps the reason for the shrubs lack of vigor…

(the telling signs of deer in the yard / Julie Cook / 2016)

Obviously there are visitors to my little corner of the world,
late at night,
when no one is watching.

All of which now has me wondering about the other things in life where I see things misshapen and oddly missing…

I wonder what it was that went missing in our hearts and minds to have turned us so far from God’s direction for our lives.

This desire we seem to now have to fill our cups to the brim with all things satiating as we have total disregard for Him, His word, His believers….forget God, it’s a free for all of self…

I wonder what it was that went missing from our leaders with regard to this
once great Nation Under God…
What of their charge to keep and protect that which is sacred to a Nation…
it’s nucleus, the family.

I wonder what it was that went missing when we decided it was ok for abortions to be used readily as a means of birth control…with total disregard to human life—which was once considered a miracle and a gift.
Now it’s a bother and a burden.

I wonder what went missing when we decided that the union of a man and a man or a woman and a woman was equally as good to that of a man and a woman.
No longer is life clearcut, but blurred and gray…
Leaving nothing but confusion in its wake for the future…

I wonder what went missing when we decided that we could throw caution to the wind as changing ones sex has become as simple as changing shoes.
You aren’t feeling very manly today?
No problem.
Try being a woman…
as we continue to lose ourselves to the current identity crises and delusion…

I wonder what went missing, which in turn has transformed us into sponges of all things tolerant…
while we readily forget and happily rewrite the consequences of actions and proclaim total acceptance in the name of all things happy. Who needs consequences, which gives way to the notion, who needs laws…
So then everything goes..keeping everybody happy…right??

I wonder what went missing which has made us so lazy and whiny as a people…as we scour for the easy way out and the getting everything for nothing… by hook or crook…as we’ve decide that however we get “it,” whatever we want the it to be, is ok just as long as we get it…

I wonder what went missing we we decided the Judaeo / Christian foundation of this country was now passé and obsolete….banning it’s laws, The Ten Commandments, from sight—maybe it’s an out of sight out of mind kind of thing…

And whereas it’s easy to walk through the yard to figure out what’s happening to the shrubbery, it’s not so easy walking through this current world of ours, figuring out what went wrong…since most folks don’t see anything wrong with us who are now terribly misshapen and even missing….

The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness,
but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish,
but that all should reach repentance.
2 Peter 3:9

The importance of the angle

“I don’t care much for facts, am not much interested in them; you can’t stand a fact up, you’ve got to prop it up, and when you move to one side a little and look at it from that angle, it’s not thick enough to cast a shadow in that direction.”
William Faulkner

(a bowl of freshly picked blueberries / Julie Cook / 2015)

Ode to the importance of angles. . .

I’m not talking about geometry or trigonometry
I’m not talking about Physics or Calculus
I’m not talking about cartography or the study of trajectory
I’m not talking about cameras, photography or architecture
I’m not talking about framing or woodworking
I’m not talking about golf, tennis, football, baseball, soccer, or hockey. . .

I’m simply talking about picking blueberries. . .

Upon first inspection of my blueberry bushes, I readily and immediately see exactly what needs picking.
Those lovely succulent orbs of royal blue to purple to practically black dangling and dotting the green backdrop like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

Working feverishly in the heat of day, gingerly canvasing the bush, I begin the task of pulling, plucking and gently twisting until the bush gives release of her tiny treasures. . .as I notice several berries sporting tiny little piercing holes. . . pecked neatly in the center of each berry.
As in pecking birds. . .
I am more than willing to share my bounty with my feathered friends but I would hope that the birds would pick and take as opposed to pecking, damaging and leaving.

Resigned to having no choice in my sharing, I let out one long heat laden sigh. . .

After an excruciatingly hot 40 minutes or so of slowly making my way round and around the bush, standing on tippy toes and squatting way down low, it appears as if I have gotten all the berries that are ripe, leaving those red and green berries for another day as they still require a few more days.

The thoughts of a cool AC and an even colder cool shower were sweetly beckoning to me like a siren to the weary sailor. . .that is until I bend over, picking up a few berries that had fallen down into the pine straw. . .and that’s when happenstance would have it’s wicked way with me.
I cast my gaze slightly upward, up underneath the bush. . .and that’s when I saw it.. . or rather that’s when I saw them. . .
I was aghast.
Dangling high and low, as if to tease even more sweat from my heatstroke brow, there hanging and hidden from the sight of the obvious are a myriad more overtly ripe blue and purple berries.

Hidden from the sight of the obvious.

I begin crawling up and under, scrounging on bended knees, reaching and stretching ever upward, around and over. . .agin and agin. . .
Plucking until, thinking triumphantly, I have finally gotten every last berry. . .
. . .that is until I turn my head to the left. . .

And that’s when it hits me. . .
This picking business isn’t about the obvious. . .no, not at all.
The key to successful picking is knowing about the angle.
The obvious is one thing.
The obvious is easy.
Everyone sees the obvious.
Even the birds see the obvious. . .taking full advantage of such obvious pickings.
The key to success, the key to the fullest basket or bowl of berries,
isn’t resting in the obvious. . .
No. . .I have discovered, in the heat of this late June day while clutching a burgeoning bowl of berries, that the key to success lies not in the obvious. . .
but rather the key lies hidden in the all important angle.

Being keen to bend, cocking ones head, peering up and over, or under and around.
With the angle of vision being paramount. . .

Being able to go into any endeavor, be it picking berries or solving any of life’s toughest troubles, knowing that what greets you initially is not all that there is—for there is certainly more— will be the true ticket to success—

So the next time you’re faced with one of life’s vexing problems—don’t consider the obvious, that which is staring you in the face. . . be willing to cock your head, looking over and around, up and above, hidden and way down low . . .

You might just be surprised at how quickly you’ll fill your cup,
your heart, your life, your bowl. . .
filling it full with even more ripe berries than what you had initially expected. . .

Now it’s time for that shower!!!

Sacrifice gives way to life–a tale of the humble quince

Wealth without work
Pleasure without conscience
Science without humanity
Knowledge without character
Politics without principle
Commerce without morality
Worship without sacrifice.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

(ripened quince / Julie Cook / 2014)

I have 4 quince bushes planted along our bank.
They are some of the first plants which begin bearing a glimmer of life after the long, grey, empty and very dormant winter.
Deep rich and luscious greens accented by beautiful magenta and coral flowers are the first colors in my yard when everything else is still gripped in the grey shadows of death and decay which continues to hold fast to all hope.

That’s what the quince do, they offer hope.
Just as soon as the tiny rays of life slowly unfurl from the little quince, I know that the remaining trees and plants will soon follow suit.
The quince is the standard bearer of the yard, a heralder trumpeting, for all to hear, that hope and life are soon at hand.

This time of year however is a different story.
Pale yellow grey spotted globules nestle closely against spindly little barren brown sticks.
With the waning of the calendar year, so wanes the quince.
All the leaves have fallen off, leaving the scrawny limbs dotted with grey speckled lemon like fruit.
Not the pettiest sight.

My husband always threatens to cut the quinces down as he’s convinced the plants are dead.
And I in turn must always explain that the bushes are not dead but rather simply entering a time of decline.
This “season,” in the life of the quince, is the time when the bush drops its leaves— leaves which are expendable allowing the quince to concentrate all remaining nutrients and energies into the growth and flourishing of fruit—as the fruit is what ensures the plant’s survival, as the fruit contains the seeds to new life.

Heralder of Hope
Sacrificer of self
Focuser of energies
Offerer of renewal and that which sparks the emergence of new life
Guaranteer of survival, everlasting

The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is from the earth belongs to the earth, and speaks as one from the earth. The one who comes from heaven is above all. He testifies to what he has seen and heard, but no one accepts his testimony. Whoever has accepted it has certified that God is truthful. For the one whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for God gives the Spirit without limit. The Father loves the Son and has placed everything in his hands. Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life, but whoever rejects the Son will not see life, for God’s wrath remains on them.

John 3:31-36

tiny jewels

“The earth is like a beautiful bride who needs no manmade jewels to heighten her loveliness…”
Kahlil Gibran

(a tiny bowl of tiny Sun Gold and Brandywine cherry tomatoes / Julie Cook / 2014

I love cherry tomatoes—those tiny little hanging orbs bursting forth with an explosion of summer all in one small bite. My husband on the other hand does not like cherry tomatoes. I suppose with his being the manly man that he is, cherry tomatoes must seem too tiny, too girly, too not worth it when wanting a “real tomato.

He rationalizes that 50 cherries would constitute one “normal” tomato—why bother with gathering up a million little ones, when truly, one decent sized tomato will do. How on earth do you make a tomato sandwich, that quintessentially summertime favorite, with teeny tiny little red balls?! And let’s not start on the fact that there are other colors for tomatoes than red. In his world, tomatoes are red and red only. In my world, they are white, yellow, purple, black, bumpy, striped, large and small.

I like my world.

He’s more of a big beef steak fan–a hardy Big Boy, a giant Better Boy or an acidic Rutgers.
They must be peeled and sliced thin. God forbid I leave the peel on. And let’s not talk about getting too creative like, say, roasting with olive oil, fresh thyme sprig, fresh rosemary, sea salt, garlic and olive oil. Is there any thing better—that heavenly aroma wafting through the house—serve over warm pasta or add to mixed greens, a drizzle of balsamic, add crumbled feta or perhaps chèvre, or slivers of pecorino romano —ummmmmm.

Each year, in our garden, my husband graciously yields to my desire for at least one plant of cherries and one plant of plums. Plums make some of the meatier tomato sauces as they are flavorful and do not render to mush when cooked.

How was I suppose to know that out of our 10 plants, now giant bushes, that 4 of them would turn out to be cherries?! I swear I had no idea! Honest!

I’ve grown full sized Brandywines and Sun Golds before. No where did the little marker, stating the type and variety of plant, did it state Brandywine cherry or Sun Gold cherry. Only one plant’s little marker stated Sun Gold cherries. The other’s read as a regular plant.

Imagine my surprise and his alarm, when the tomatoes started to form, that half of the tomato plants would be either cherries or plums. Who knew?

Oh well.
There will still be enough “normal” sized tomatoes to make his go to BLT’s but even more tiny tomatoes for a little extra creativity in the kitchen. . . sounds pretty good to me and pretty darn tasty 😉

Is there anything more beautifully Southern?

The artist is the confidant of nature, flowers carry on dialogues with him through the graceful bending of their stems and the harmoniously tinted nuances of their blossoms. Every flower has a cordial word which nature directs towards him.
Auguste Rodin

(pink hydrangea blooms, Savannah, Georgia / Julie Cook / 2014)

Ode to the showy hydrangea.
Some consider the hydrangea a boastful an overtly showy plant / bush. They are capped off with large garish clusters of blooms mounding in a giant heavy clump.
These plants grow long woody stems, accented with equally large green leaves, topped with giant colorful pompoms of flowers. They can grow quit massive if not watched and pruned.

The ph of the soil is the key in determining whether a hydrangea will be pink or blue. I wrote about my blue hydrangeas last summer, offering several images.
And as I do have two blue bushes, it is when I see the pink varieties, as was the case in Savannah, that I am so taken by their light, airy and dainty feminine charm. The pink blooms seem almost more soft and tender than the blue.

This past Winter’s harsh final hooray of wicked weather, which we experienced in the early days of a slow coming Spring, took a great toll on my hydrangeas. Fearing the worst, that I had lost my hydrangeas to the deep freeze, I had to cut them back almost to the ground. Luckily for me, life prevailed, and they have managed to leaf back out, but unfortunately will not bloom this season.

So until I have my own blooms sprouting, I will have to enjoy the blooms of others.
I hope you will enjoy them as well. . .

A visual tale of contrast

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”
― John Steinbeck

The sun is brightly shining, as the frigid bitterness of the days prior, tempers to a delightful and balmy 45ᵒ
I’m on a mission.
A mission to find life amongst the frozen tundra known as the land I call home.
The ground still hard and frozen under foot, the bright winter sun brilliantly warming while accented by a cloudless azure sea of sky.
There is the scent of smoke in the air.
I have shed my heavy coat.
The nuthatches and chickadees chirp merrily as they poke and prod the hard ground for seed.
Nestled near a walkway cowers a small ancient birdbath now sadly frozen.

Amazingly just a few short steps beyond the solid frozen mass of water, leaves and straw lie tucked sweetly among the rocks, a tiny beautiful carpet of soft chartreuse moss begging to be rubbed. Is there any better feeling on a hot summer day, barefoot, finding a cool patch of moss. . .

All of the bushes and shrubs are now barren clumps of twisted sticks and twigs. Odd thing it seems now to have merely a garden of sticks verses the usual lush plump green leaves and vines which typically call this place home. Upon a close inspection of the gnarly twig clumps dotting the now leaf covered bank–there oddly remains a few shriveled grey masses protruding along the quince bushes. These alien nodules resemble some sort of grotesque growth rather than the usual crunchy yellow green orbs which typically adorn these showy asian orientals.

And just as Mother Nature, who seems to relish in her relentless taunting of our tender senses, would have this winter world of cold appear hopelessly void of any semblance of colorful life, I spy a tenacious little champion of all that screams LIFE.
It is the lowly, albeit stubborn, bane of any gardener. . .the hardy and nearly indestructible dandelion.

The ground a hard frozen mass, the winds and temperatures so brutal that almost all vegetation has either perished or will surly be stunted come the growing season, and yet, this most noxious of garden foes not only maintains its place in the pecking order of nature, but appears to thrive—-providing any and all who happen to pass by a bit of colorful joy in a bleak and oh so cold world.

So yes Mr. Steinbeck, it is to this winter that we must acknowledge there is indeed a sweetness to be had—in just about 5 months or so we will have all but forgotten these current cold long shadowed days. This barren world will no longer exist. Our seemingly long deprived senses will be filled and overflowing—

Yet until those long warmer days arrive, I shall continue my quest, my mission—and that is to find those hidden breadcrumbs which a previous season has strewn along its departure– leaving behind a tantalizing trail to remind me that better days are indeed ahead!