I pulled out the last of them with the point of a rock climbing pick.
The dirt was hard– their stems thick as rhubarb.
Then it rained for five days straight. Bastard Cabbages returned, invading my sweet garden, their leaves spreading wide like skirts of French court gowns.
But such extravagance left little room for daisies, snapdragons, and sweet peas started from seed.
I carved out a space around the tiny flowers. They, too, needed light and air.
She looked very much like the Queen Mother– not only in her coloring but in the way she dressed.
Heavy silk dresses, a string of pearls, a brooch pinned neatly below her neckline.
She was always prim and proper, her expression composed, though it softened into a lovely smile when we sang “Happy Birthday,” when she beat me at checkers, and especially when she offered a slice of lemon meringue or apple pie, still warm from the oven.
One day she wore a dress my mother had sewn for her from fabric covered in flowers the color of those in the flower power advertisements.
I looked at her in wonder.
“Wild flowers!” I declared.
She giggled then– a light, girlish sound I had never heard before.
For an instant, I caught sight of someone other than my dutiful Nana:
a young woman bright with life, still there beneath the silk dresses and pearls.
It was enchanting!
The following passage was in a note Nana once wrote to me:
Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May! by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow It is Not Always May
I never asked why. It was in her Dutch blood, her Calvinistic sense of simplicity– upright, unadorned.
On Mother’s Day there were always tulips: pale pink, set in her Delft vase, its blue-and-white surfaces catching the light, holding it quietly beneath the stems.
I tried, sometimes, to improve upon them– those lavish arrangements– variegated tulips, blue hydrangea, white roses, small bright globes of yellow– but she would only smile, as if to say: not this.
She wanted the tulips alone.
Now, after many years and other flowers– peonies, lilies, anemones, even the careful making of paper petals–
I pass a market stall and stop.
I bring home tulips, pale pink, and set them in her vase.
In the quiet of the room they open, and she is there.
Within these walls, my heart does rest, A haven wrought with love’s own crest. The strokes of brush on canvas bare, Birds in flight and animals fair. Vermont’s wild lands in oil unfold, Sunset’s fire, winter’s cold.
Here roses bloom in vases old, Ceramic treasure finely scrolled. Their petals whisper of the past, Of father’s gifts – how time does last. And glass that gleams, my mother’s hand, In paperweights from foreign lands.
On shelves, the books of poets dwell, Their words, like spells, my soul compels. Photographs with faces dear, In every frame, I hold them near. This is my world, a soft embrace, Where every corner finds its place.
Some speak of spaces clean and bare, Of lives unbound by things they wear. Yet here, amidst this cherished cache, I find my peace and hold it fast. For in each token, vase, or frame, Life’s rich fabric, for now remains.
So let the world of minimal claim, Their rooms untouched by love’s sweet flame. For in my charming abode, I see, The beauty that belongs to me.
I have just started giving my special treasures to my daughters for their own homes. I love seeing how my belongings look surrounded by completely different color and decorating schemes, and, my daughters’ own art and objects of affection.
I tended a rose bush with loving care, In hopes her beauty might my heart ensnare. Her petals bloomed, a velvet blush of red, But soon I found her charm, a thing to dread.
Her thorns, like daggers, pierced my seeking hand, Each touch a wound no comfort could withstand. The blood she drew ran crimson on the earth, A wicked price for such a meager birth.
No scent she gave, no fragrant breath of grace, A beauty hollow, lacking warm embrace. Where other roses filled the air with song, She stood in silence, sharp where she was strong.
And though a flower crowned her once, then fell, She offered little more than this to tell. A bloom or two, in early summer’s light, Then naught but thorns to meet my hand in spite.
Oh roses sweet, that gentle hearts adore, ‘Tis not enough – one might yearn for more. The fairest face is not the fairest soul- Without the perfume, beauty is not whole.
I finally gave up on this difficult rose bush and replaced it with a tea rose that had the most alluring fragrance. I wish I had done it years ago!
In a small and quiet village, lived a woman kind and true, She helped her friends and family, no matter what they’d do. Her heart was filled with charity, her hands with gentle grace, She asked for nothing in return, just a smile upon each face.
But fate, with cruel fingers, wove a twist within her life, She fell into a sickness, her body racked with strife. She tried to mend her weary self, with strength she couldn’t find, And so she called for those she’d helped, with hope they’d be as kind.
Yet each one had their burdens, and other tasks to tend, They turned away, their busy lives, no time to help a friend. Alone she faced her suffering, with tears and silent pleas, Her heart ached more than body, as she fell upon her knees.
One morning in her garden, beneath the sun’s embrace, She saw a sight that took her breath, and brought light to her face. A flower, bright and beautiful, bloomed from a plant so plain, A gift from gentle nature, to soothe her deepest pain.
In petals soft and fragrant, she felt a tender care, A message from the earth and sky, that someone still was there. Nature’s touch had reached her, when human hearts had failed, And in that bloom, she found the strength, her spirit once more sailed!
I hold the gifts from nature so very close to my heart, especially in times of need. Every so often, I feel they are my late mother’s way of caring for me – still.
In a tapestry of threads once left astray, Lies the beauty of a wreath in shades arrayed. With remnants of wool, a canvas they adorn, A masterpiece born from what others scorned.
Each stitch a story of resilience and grace, From discarded strands, a new life takes place. In every cross and turn, a tale is spun, Of transformation from what was undone.
What once lay idle, now blooms with delight, A wreath of colors, a symphony of light. So, the joy of creating from what’s been cast away, Turning leftovers into art, day by day.
I wanted to stitch a needlepoint project using leftover tapestry wool from past efforts. This wreath was worked using a combination of Appleton, Paternayan (two strands only), and Elizabeth Bradley yarns. I did not have all the color matches for the pattern so I had to create my own colorway. I plan to sew it into a pillow with rose velvet ribbon piping and a black velvet backing.
I really like creating something beautiful from scraps, be it a needlepoint canvas or a quilt. These end up being my favorite pieces!
In Easter’s light, redemption’s tale is told, Through Christ’s sacrifice, salvation unfolds. He bore the weight of sin upon the cross, To free us from despair and endless loss.
In agony, he bore pain and strife, That we may find the path to eternal life. His wounds, a testament to love’s pure grace, An offering of mercy in that sacred place.
With each nail driven, each thorn pressed deep, He paved the way for us to rise and reap, The blessings of forgiveness, freely given, He triumphed over death, all sins forgiven,
So let us gather, hearts lifted high, In gratitude for the gift of Christ’s reply. Easter’s dawn brings hope and renewal bright, As we walk in the glow of redemptive light.
Wishing you all a very Happy Easter! 💛 xo
My favorite Easter hymn below, “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.” Alleluia!
Satin & Sand 