“A dream garden is better than no garden at all. At least your mind is filled with flowers and color and beauty. And I think, without even being aware of it, we slowly move towards what we hold in our minds.” (Words from Millie to her daughter Vita in my novel And So We Dream)
If I had a garden, I’d take my breakfast there.
I’d find a hammock or a garden chair and enjoy the peaceful shade.
I’d invite a friend to join me for lunch among the blooms,
and I’d find a quiet spot in the fragrant afternoons.
In the garden’s comfort, I’d indulge in a book or two,
and include a pot of tea and a floral china cup.
And in the scented evenings, the garden all aglow,
I’d sleep among the flowers and dream the sweetest dreams.
While much of the country has already experienced soaring temperatures, here in New York, this has been an especially beautiful spring. Cooler temperatures have prolonged the season of lilacs, irises, and azaleas.
Even the rhododendrons and peonies are just now in full bloom.
I think of these kinds of days as “gift” days, allowing me to more fully enjoy the cool mornings and to take longer end-of-day strolls through the neighborhood, with its profusion of flowering bushes and small flower-filled gardens.
I hope wherever you experience spring, you have an abundance of flowers and blooms to enrich your day —
including bouquets of fresh-cut flowers that also bring about that same springtime joy.
(images from my Pinterest boards – and my neighborhood!)
Anne, Vita, Beth. They were hippie girls. Teenagers. Long flowing hair, embroidered peasant tops, long skirts, dangling earrings, bare feet. Pulled one way by the tradition of their small Mid-Western town, another by the promise of the wide world outside.
Twelve-year-old Joey Roland spends the summer with them while his parents “work things out.” He soon discovers that, like the home he left behind in Chicago, the small town of Greenberry is also filled with sadness – loss, betrayal, fears, and disappointment.
The difference is that the three sisters – especially the middle one who pursues the path of acting – teach him how to infuse ordinary life with magic, adventure, and joy.
The result is a summer of transformation, and, for Joey, new-found confidence in his dream path.
Now that it’s officially spring, reading outdoors has even more appeal. Opening a new book amid the first flowers of spring or under blossoming trees speaks of new beginnings, a sense of well-being, and hope.
There’s the promise of longer days and milder weather, and hopefully, more free time to indulge in the discovery of new books.
And if it’s still too cold where you live to read outdoors, bring a bit of springtime inside with a few blossomy sprigs or some fresh-cut flowers to remind you of what’s up ahead.
Forget-me-nots are one of summer’s many beautiful flowers. They grow in clusters in varying shades of blue and are almost fairy-like in their daintiness. They are small and unassuming — yet packed with significance.
In my novel The Garden House, the flower, and more particularly, its name, takes on a special meaning. They are related to Miranda and her memories of when her children were young, and are significant to the secondary plot involving the mysterious William Priestly.
In preparation for the new tenant, Miranda plants flowers outside the garden house and then comes inside to clean it.
Tired, she sat down on the floor, resting her elbows on her knees. Then with a sigh of fatigue she stretched out, the hardwood floor feeling good against her back.
She let her eyes wander over some of the details of her beloved garden house – the Dutch blue of the dresser and window trim, the pillows and curtains she and Clara had made. They had spent so many hours over the years down here – painting, sewing, transforming the run-down garden house into a charming, livable cottage. Clara had loved the profusion of forget-me-nots that surrounded the garden house, and decided to christen the cottage the Forget-Me-Not House. It had seen many tea parties and birthday celebrations, and Clara’s favorite, the fairy parties.
Later, Miranda shows the garden house to William who decides that he will rent it for the summer.
It’s all very comfortable. It feels – ” he looked around for the words to describe it. “It feels like – a real home.”
Miranda laughed. “It is a real home – an extension of the house.” She gazed lovingly at the garden house, the window boxes and potted flowers. “A lot of happy memories here.”
William stepped off the porch and looked at the garden house from a few paces back, clearly admiring it. He noticed the small hand-painted sign nailed above the door, and read, “The Forget-Me-Not House.”
“My daughter named it that when she was little. But somehow we always refer to it as the Garden House.”
Spring seems to be the perfect season to read a Jane Austen novel, or one of the many books inspired by her work. Perhaps it’s because her stories end on a hopeful, spring-like note.
Perhaps it’s because milder weather allows the heroines to be out and about more, as with Elizabeth Bennet’s strolls through the spring countryside in Pride and Prejudice,
or Fanny Price in Mansfield Park enjoying a spring day in Portsmouth with its “mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute: and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky,”
or Persuasion’s Anne Elliot “hoping that she was to blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty.”
The fresh beauty of blossom-time and the promise of milder weather are just the right time to reread your favorite Austen book or to discover a new one.
About this time of year I start to think of gardening. I look out at my snow-covered window boxes and imagine them filled with geraniums, petunias, and thousand-bells.
I see my brick steps covered by the latest snowfall and remember the year I filled terra cotta pots with flowers in purple, rose, and blue, one pot for each step, and how happy they made me every time I left or returned home. I look at my little patch of New York City garden, and wonder which annuals I will plant this year, how many I can squeeze in next to the perennials.
My novel The Garden House is set in Seattle, which has a nearly year-long growing season. In such a place, gardeners — such as the book’s main character, Miranda — would already be planting potted flowers and enjoying early blooms.
Potting sheds and garden rooms would be hubs of activity, crowded with tools and pots and packets of seeds, alongside open bags of potting soil and well-used gardening gloves.
However, for those of us still in the heart of snowy winter, a little armchair gardening is just thing to weather the cold.