Lingering days and the soft glow of lights.
Dining al fresco,
and a stroll after dinner.
Candles in the garden,
and tiny lights that stretch the day just a little longer.
Windows and doors opened to welcome the scents and sounds of evening.
Sitting on the porch and enjoying the close of day,
or gathering around a fire to usher in the night.
There’s nothing quite like a summer’s eve.
In the novel The Garden House, the natural beauty and attractions of the Pacific Northwest play a key role in the life of the main character, Miranda.
From the dramatic Oregon coast
to the Puget Sound and Seattle’s vibrant Pike Place Market,
to the Columbia River Gorge and the Art Nouveau charm of the Vista House
and nearby Multnomah Falls,
the allure of the Pacific Northwest inspires Miranda to live a life full of beauty.
The longer nights and cooler temperatures of autumn are perfect for browsing through a good bookstore — and leaving with an armful of books.
“There were fewer finer things in life … than spending time perusing the shelves of a good bookshop.” ― George Mann
“The truly wide taste in reading is that which enables a man to find something for his needs on the sixpenny tray outside any secondhand bookshop.” ― C.S. Lewis
“To my mind there is nothing so beautiful or so provocative as a secondhand bookstore.”
―Lionel Barrymore
“Perhaps that is the best way to say it: printed books are magical, and real bookshops keep that magic alive.” ― Jen Campbell
“Books are an escape route. A refuge…. a tunnel to the outside world. A glimmer of something beyond.”―Chloe Coles
“Reality doesn’t always give us the life that we desire, but we can always find what we desire between the pages of books.”― Adelise M. Cullens
Happy reading!
Though the story of The Garden House opens in late spring and closes in the fall, I made a Pinterest board called “The Garden House – winter.” The main character, Miranda, lives in Seattle and has a beautiful garden that’s an integral part of her life. I imagine her loving her garden in all seasons, including the rain and occasional snow of winter.
In The Garden House, Miranda’s garden becomes a metaphor for life, with themes of family, change, memories, home, and the search for meaning. When all else goes wrong, Miranda retreats to her garden, with a cup of tea in hand, and finds solace.
Surrounded by the beauty of her garden, she allows herself to be captivated and inspired by the mysteries of life.
I imagine Miranda enjoying her garden in January, curled up in her window seat and watching the falling snow cover the birdhouses, birdbaths, and terra cotta pots.
I see her strolling through her garden, delighting in the vestiges of summer and fall — frost-covered roses, hydrangeas, and Queen Anne’s Lace.
In every season, Miranda fills her home with cuttings from her garden. I imagine her gathering branches of winter berries and greenery to make bouquets for her dining table and to set among the plants of the greenhouse window in her kitchen.
Perhaps she even brushes off the snow from a deck chair, and sipping a cup of hot chocolate, enjoys the tranquility and quiet of her winter garden.
Yellow. The color of late September. Faded gold, gilded green, amber. In Central Park today, even the air appeared yellow as sunlight filtered through the thinning leaves. Throughout the park, yellow leaves lay scattered beneath the trees, on the roads, sidewalks, and grass. The day was unusually warm and the bright sun brought out the golden hues.
I strolled through one of my favorite walkways, a short path alongside a fence covered in a tangle of morning glories. The vines still showed pink and purple, with yellowed leaves mixed among the green.
Something caught my attention in the distance, and I had to stop and stare, puzzling out what I was seeing. A patch of air glittered among the yellow trees. I realized it was a shaft of sunlight shining on a spray of water from a sprinkler. Shadows boxed it in so that it looked like a square patch of sparkles hovering in the air.
Straggly clusters of flowers still showed a bit of color, as in the clouds of white that surrounded the elms.
And though most flowers now have woody stems and drooping leaves, there are still vibrant patches of color to be found, soaking up the warmth of late September.
The weather will change soon and cooler temperatures will bring about the more dramatic colors of autumn. Who knows? By next week touches of orange and red might tinge the trees. And September’s soft yellow will shift to the sharper, more vibrant yellow of October.
Back to school. Yellow leaves. Sunny days and chill nights.
Apples and cider. Sweaters and boots. Chrysanthemums, dahlias, and asters.
Frosty mornings. Acorns and buckeyes. Leisurely walks. The last of the garden tomatoes.
Curling up with a good book. Hot chocolate. Tartans and flannel. Shawls.
Curling up with a good book.
An early morning rain intensifies the colors in Central Park. The green becomes a vivid emerald. The azalea, a dazzling pink.
The stones and tree trunks turn rich gray and black, and the lamplight lingers, dotting the park with touches of gold.
The soft patter muffles the din of the city, and the rain on the lake makes the most tranquil of sounds.
White blossoms lay scattered on the rain-dark pathways, and fall softly on the textured water of the lake. A quiet beauty suffuses the morning; the air is cool and fragrant.
Only a few feet away the city swirls in traffic, pedestrians rushing to work, horns blaring, stop lights and tail lights reflecting on the wet surfaces.
An old stone wall separates 59th Street from Central Park. On one side, the hustle and bustle of New York City. On the other, the serenity of the park, the beauty of nature.
And spring is just beginning.
A little death entered us when you went ahead.
So great was the love that tethered us to you,
we would have gladly followed;
Like little cygnets straining to keep up,
their eyes fixed on the beautiful white swan ahead.
The rippling wake, the path to you.
*
But you, nurturing mother,
Said no – the wake is the path you created for us;
The wondrous wake is life itself.
Your wish – for us to embrace it, as you did,
with love and laughter and joy.
*
You, beautiful swan,
turned your head to us, as if gently saying,
this was not our time, but yours;
For us, now, to delight in the beauty around us,
to splash in the waters of life!
Time enough for the later journey.
*
Your gift to us, your legacy:
To live first fully in the wake.
Linda Mahkovec - Author 