Long Lost Friend #2

Have you ever met a person so completely different and unique that you knew you'd just met a singular, one-of-a-kind individual? I've met people like that. They cannot be analyzed, stereotyped, or predicted, and they remain fascinating as long as you know them.

A few years back I found a rhododendron that is the plant version of the above. Sunstone came into my view on one of my sister-sojourns to Whitney Gardens. A sunshine yellow low bloomer with a twist! Deep in the yellow bell is a rich burgundy throat, hidden from view unless the viewer gets close and intentional. And to lure the viewer close, Sunstone puts out some surprise petals outside the bell, each with a splash of the same intense red. Some master painter has surely been at work here!

After the first year, Sunstone did not reappear. I looked for him but he was nowhere to be found. I concluded that my voracious western red cedars had likely choked the life out of him. And to make matters worse, Whitney didn't list him in the catalog this year.

In another one of my gardens was an unknown rhodie trying to recover from the ravages of cedar-choking. I clearly remember finding this unknown plant, almost lifeless and near death, and moving him to a new garden area to give him a chance at life. This year he gave forth his incredible blooms, and to my joy, I was reunited with my friend. What a reunion we had! Like the prodigal son, my Sunstone has come home to bless me.

Long Lost Friend #1

It must have been five years ago that I lost my heart to Charmant. Maybe longer. There it was at Whitney's, one of the most beautiful rhodies I'd ever seen. It was dressed for the grandest of occasions in the most lustrous red and white blooms. Each truss exploded with white bells embellished with a pink edge and a red throat. But not just white. A most extraordinary pearl white that seemed to glow from some inner radiance. Hans Hachmann, one of the world's best hybridizers, considers this to be one of his very finest.

I planted my Hachmann's Charmant in my back yard. The last several years he has not shown his face. Last year I realized why. He had been almost choked out by larger, stronger rhododendrons. No light was getting in, and his branches had grown long and spindly from trying to reach the sun. I had to try to save him. I grabbed my shovel and dug him out. Even at his age his root system was manageable. I lifted him into my three-wheeled ambulance and transferred him to ICU. Then I pruned half his branches down to growth buds near the ground, fertilized, watered, and prayed.

This summer he has rewarded me with iridescent beauty even while his amputated branches struggle to push out new growth. He has promised me he is going to survive, and in time he will be a beauty again.

Yesterday I did the second surgery. It seemed he was singing - a new song, a song I recognized...

"Beautiful, that's how Mercy saw me.
For I was broken and so lost,
Mercy looked past all my faults.
The justice of God saw what I had done,
But Mercy saw me through the Son.
Not what I was, but what I could be,
That's how Mercy saw me."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQ470J316iI

Just as God wants each of us to become all that He planned, Hachmann's Charmant will live to fulfill his potential. I can't wait to see that day!

The iris field

Picture courtesy of LeonineIris.com

A meandering path through a field of flowers stretched before me. The blooms were waist high in shades of purple. They seemed to be bearded iris, stretching before me like a violet tide. The colors were intense, almost glowing. The air was velvet, that perfect temperature that the skin loves. A subtle fragrance flowed over me like a beautiful memory. It was a perfect harmony of sun, garden, breeze.
My violin was in my hand, and as I stepped onto the path, I began to play. The music was a concerto from the solo repertoire, studied long ago and almost forgotten. But this time it was different. The violin seemed to be playing itself, the music perfect and exquisite. I've always found the violin difficult and cumbersome. Playing well has always been hard work. This time, the music came effortless and pure, like looking into a many-faceted diamond. My fingers moved through the rapid passages, the double-stops perfect, the bow weightless. The music, colors, sounds, fragrances, blended together into a heavenly essence.


I don't usually remember my dreams, but I'll never forget this one. It was not an earthly experience. Jesus said "I go to prepare a place for you...". I'm becoming more and more convinced that the place He is preparing for me will be a garden, and there will be a violin there for me as well. I just got a glimpse of eternity.

Singin' the Blues

My two sisters and I have a few favorite garden rituals. One of them is the annual trek to Whitney Gardens, one of our favorite nurseries. They specialize in rhododendrons and azaleas. The day begins with a stop at Starbucks for pumpkin scones and our favorite coffee drinks, which we enjoy while sitting in line for the ferry. An hour's drive and we are immersed in the acres of rhododendrons, some towering twenty or more feet above our heads. The ritual includes a walkthrough of the "color houses" where many of their smaller plants are sorted by color, as well as the fields where the larger plants are planted in long rows, waiting for adoption.

On this trip I took a moment to wander over to the conifer area. I've developed a new fascination with dwarf conifers after discovering a garden blog called The Amazing World of Conifers . I wasn't expecting to see anything new since I'd been there just a month earlier. Even so, I was completely enjoying the newly emerging buds, candles, and the occasional puff of pollen as the breeze came through. Suddenly, something very blue caught my eye. It was almost buried in a row of "old man trees", as I call them. I had to see.

There it was, the blue beauty I thought I would never find. For several months I've been searching online for a Picea pungens 'The Blues', a dwarf weeping variety of blue spruce. All searches had proved fruitless. I knew one propagator that had them as small grafts, but I would never live long enough to see it grow up. Here it was, full size, just waiting. Of course it became mine at that moment, and it's been singing to me, drawing me out of my busyness to come listen. I can't recognize the music yet. It must be a new song I have yet to learn.


 





Picea pungens 'Ruby Teardrops'

Another part of the Whitney Gardens ritual is a stop at a small nursery "on the way" called Savage Plants. This nursery is very small and very artistic, more like a landscaper's paradise. Today we can't shop because the car is completely full. And yet, another jewel is waiting for discovery, like hidden treasure. What is this lovely thing? The tag says "Ruby Teardrops" and it means it! A small blue conifer with red buds on the tips of the branches. And these are not your small red cones, like Acrocona. These are boisterous, almost blatant, red tips that cannot be missed, that threaten to cover and overwhelm. Needless to say, it rode home on my lap.

I love surprises, and these joys just remind me of God's lavish and boisterous love for us. His Word says He is a loving Father that loves to give gifts to His children. I'm so glad I'm His!

God's Palette

It was one of those mornings. Here in the Pacific Northwest, we have an abundance of gray, cold mornings. My favorite word for them is "dank". So when one of these special warm sunny mornings comes along, we stop whatever we are doing and run for the patch of sun. This morning was like that.

My hubby (and best friend) and I were sitting with our morning coffee, gazing out at the palette of colors that blazes throughout the spring. Pinks, purples, blues spread out in every direction. Our conversation turned to our very dear friend Steve, a prolific composer, who writes music because he cannot help it. He's just completed his third massive musical, The Life of Jesus, complete with drama and music, and it could be that no one on this earth will ever hear it. Still he writes, for an Audience of one, because he can't help it. We concluded that perhaps it's playing in Heaven and it just spilled over into a willing vessel.

Composing music, painting a picture, planting a garden... all are artistry. And the artist is compelled to add to, touch up, revise, perhaps start anew. Isn't that just such a picture of God? He creates each of us as a work of art, completely unique. But the artistry doesn't stop. If we let Him, He wiill continue to "touch up, revise, add to" as long as we stay close. He is the Vinedresser. He will nurture us, fertilize our soil, water us, pull the weeds that threaten to choke us, and even prune when necessary. In His loving heart, He sees the beauty and perfection that we can be with His loving care. My need to create a beautiful garden is just a reflection of His great love in my life. I'm looking forward to the completion of His work!

Lavish Beauty

From my window I have a great view of my Rhododendron 'Midnight Mystique", given to me by my dear sister and rhodie addict Norma. It has grown from just a young pipsqueak in the few years I've had it to a true in-your-face beauty. Its rare and beautiful color is impossible to capture with a camera. The color is much more like looking through a glass of rare Merlot. Its branches refuse to stay compact, and instead stretch up to the light in lavish joyful praise.

The Bible says, "If we don't praise His name, even the rocks and stones will cry out." (Luke 19:40) And indeed they do, day and night. Midnight Mystique will always shout more joyously. I can almost hear the song... "Joyful, joyful, we adore thee..."  Perhaps it is thanking the Creator for its breathtaking beauty. And He always hears.

The Birth

Today it is born. The garden calls to me, speaks to me, teaches me. I've let the whispers evaporate in the wind long enough. Like a child capturing fireflies in a jar, I'll try to capture these whisperings. This is for me, for God, for the garden, for anyone who wants to listen in. Welcome!