Tour of Sanity

Moonlight pierces two pines to plunge into the cyanic fabric this new day. Night slowly removes its gown to a chorus of birdsong and soft entering light. The rains still glow on the deck like some sort of quiet goodbye. At first, I tip toe barefooted in the coolness, eventually giving way to the full sole contact. Warmth from the coffee cup nested in my hands is enough on a morning like this. Are you measuring the moon this morning too? Always the thought occurs to me.

Days are now filled with fastidious care-taking. In the mornings I step off the back deck onto circle pavers winding throughout the large, crescent-shaped yard. The first six or seven stones curve around the large pine before splitting the path into a “Y”. In the morning assessment, I take the left path towards the rather large flowerbed. The bed runs the length of the white scalloped fence dividing our yard from the neighbor's. Today I check to see if the daffodils survived the storm. Hasta shoots are growing inches every day and the bright green lily shoots are as long as my hand already. Hyacinth along the picket fence are beginning to show their bulbous buds, the color yet a surprise. Tight, succulent buds of Witch's Moneybags are popping up strong and healthy. In autumn, they will grow tall with mauve-purple, flowering crowns. The garden is maybe four feet deep by fifty feet long and eventually will be filled with at least 30 different plant varieties, blooming in waves. The joy of tending this part of the yard is a certain sanity I cannot forgo.

As you follow the bed along the entire eastern boarder towards the back, you hit the creek. I check the water level and notice the pachysandra beginning to flower on the west side of the creek. The creek is built upwards toward the back of the yard by various sizes of stones and rocks. Along the eastern side of the creek, hastas, ferns, lilies and taller, bright yellow bottle rocket plants will fill in the horizon. The stone pavers along the back side of the creek are smaller and square, as it is an offshoot of the main path. They join up with a mulched walking path, bordered throughout the yard by six to eight inch stones, end to end, on both sides.

The path twists and winds, showing off different aspects of deep shade plants and thoughtfully placed annuals in planters. In a few weeks, filling in any gaps, will be hundreds of Lily of the Valley plants, probably my favorite. Ten to fifteen mature oaks along with scattered pines will eventually darken the yard entirely with their canopy. The path then bends around a white, wooden gazebo, badly in need of a fresh paint job. The gazebo connects back to the deck by a wooden, planked path, bordered by evergreen bushes. But the gazebo is only the halfway point in the arching back yard. The walking path continues winding further towards the west, past the three season's room of the house and the shed and another small grouping of pine trees.

Along the way, small side paths branch off to connect the wanderer into other features – a stone outcropping, an old-fashioned hand pump well, a collection of smaller old stumps used to display more flowers. Where there are no intentional plantings, lies the bane of my landscaping and care-taking existence: yellow archangel. This large-leaved, viney, perennial shoots underground runners in every direction. It chokes out anything planted within its reach and requires constant cutting back and removal. If I could remove it all from my yard, I would. But it is EVERYWHERE. From April until autumn, hours a day are spent digging up these vines. For the sake of my body and my mental well being, I limit myself to two hours per day of vine removal.

A wooden privacy fence anchors the entirety of the back border. Because of the curve and the multiple neighbors to our back, the fence line belongs to three separate neighbors. Each section has a a few planks that need repair. As the planks fall, we nail them back together for now. Otherwise, very little fence-tending is needed.

Every morning, I float like a phantom on the paths and wait upon blooms. I make a plan for the days work and my heart fills with gratitude and purpose. Like the flowers and the plants, I am a child of the sun's affection. My tears are dried by a touch of light and my sighs are fragrant like the hyacinth or roses. Can I get any closer than these tended blossoms? Can you?