Golden Moments

It is only for a moment that the sun catches the trees in the forest just right, and they turn into gold. Gold tree trunks as far as the eye can see, covered with gold leaves, all the way from the ground up, and then the moment is gone, and it is just an ordinary forest with the rising sun hitting it, like it does every morning. 

It is only for a moment, a fleeting moment, that the same sun that rises above the Edom mountain range on the Jordanian border facing the dining room windows in my house on the edge of the desert, blush the otherwise bare landscape with blazing shades of red, as if caught on fire, and then it is back to the dull browns. 

Above the jagged mountains that pierce the sapphire sky, and down into the azure warm water of the Red sea, licking the shore, the rising sun lights up a kaleidoscope of fish and corals, in the unending depth.

I can envision the sun lighting the craggy valley beneath my bedroom window, in our apartment building in Jerusalem. The valley of the ghosts (Emek Refaim), that for as long as I can remember hosted the train going into the city, the same valley that once divided my town, with an unseen, yet impassable border. 

And the kettle shrieks and the water bubbles and my white cat strings a cord of silk around my feet, and I land. 

It is only my kitchen, facing a line of trees in the back yard, bounded by a tall stack of wood waiting for winter, next to the stone wall. 

And I smile to myself, what a magical journey.

Weeds are flowers too,

Weeds are flowers too once you get to know them. A. A. Milne

“And in the evening, everywhere

  Along the roadside, up and down,

I see the golden torches flare

  Like lighted street-lamps in the town.”

        Frank Demster Sherman—Golden-Rod.

When it shows up, one day by midsummer, amidst my flowers, everyone around me nods their head and urges me to uproot it before it takes over the entire garden. Names like, invasive all-encompassing, allergenic, and many more are being thrown in the air. But I who have a warm spot in my heart for flowers and plants, that come uninvited and transplant themselves into my garden, smile at it feeling that I was chosen. 

My Goldenrod (Solidago Canadensis), lodges itself in the center of the front garden, between the Daylilies and the Peonies and within days it is towering over them, sending green branches crowned with yellow burnished flowers.

I know from reading that it is unfairly blamed for causing hay fever. I also know that it is the Ragweed ((Ambrosia sp), that needs to be blamed. It is blooming at the same time, and its pollen spread by the wind is the cause of many allergy problems.

The Goldenrod, on the other hand, has many positive qualities and a documented history to prove them. Here are just a few;

Goldenrods are attractive sources of nectar for bees; the honey produced is dark and strong.

 Goldenrods are held in some places as a sign of good luck and fortune, and while considered weeds in North America they are used as garden plants in Europe.

Inventor Thomas Edison experimented with goldenrods to produce rubber; he created a fertilization and cultivation process to maximize the rubber content in each plant. In fact the tires on the Model T given to him by his friend Henry Ford were made from Goldenrod; an extensive process was conducted during World War II to commercialize goldenrod as a source of rubber.

Goldenrod is used traditionally to counter kidney inflammation caused by bacterial infections or kidney stones. Native Americas chewed the leaves to relieve sore throats and on the roots to relieve toothaches.

Knowing all the fine attributes of this plant, I feel that this newcomer deserves the spot it chose to occupy, and no bad words will convince me to rip it out and bring the risk of bad luck on my head. And so we reach an agreement; I will protect his right to grow in peace every summer in this chosen spot in the garden, and he in return will respect the space of the other plants in the garden.

 No more than few days into our gentlemanly agreement I can spot young shoots growing all over the garden, and recognize that this was a one-sided agreement. No one in his right mind will talk to a plant. Still I am not troubled, with persistence, I am sure we will be able to maintain  harmonious relationship that I look forward to,  and I will be rewarded every summer with the golden heads of flowers sprinkled all over my garden.

*Information and plants name from Wikipedia.

My Back Yard

Unused laundry lines, open grass, wood pile and an old stone fence and beyond that the tree line; this is what I see from my kitchen window. I stand there every morning, with the first cup of coffee of the day in my hand, watching the familiar scenery. For a split second, I think of other back yards I watched in the early morning hours and while sipping my coffee my mind is drifting aimlessly.  

It’s quiet, and everything out there seems completely motionless yet there is a feeling of anticipation or maybe it is just me waiting for something to move and shatter the idle scene. I am so utterly engrossed I forget everything behind me; the boiling water and the coffee waiting to be made for breakfast. 

And then a movement, I catch it in the corner of my eye, and it awakens me, I am on the alert. My eyes are scanning the scenery, nothing. The white snow looks uninterrupted and deserted as before. I remember reading somewhere that to 'really' see you need to let your eyes wonder and not focus on any specific point. Often the best place to hide is in plain sight, and the eye movement without directly focusing will do the trick. I discovered this brainy bead in a science fiction book. It is a great tool to locate aliens but who knows it might work in my back yard too. So I try this technique and move my eyes ever so slowly from side to side. It’s a good practice I notice. I pinpoint details I never noticed before. The huge branches of the old pine tree in the back are sagging, almost touching the ground; they will have to be trimmed.  The red roof over the small shade looks broken in some spots and will have to be fixed in the spring. The wood pile is dwindling, and the winter is still long.

A movement again, it is so fast I don’t really see it is just an impression of motion in the quiet morning air. I feel a bud of stubbornness growing inside me, I sense there is something there, and I want to see it. I turn back pretending I don’t care but throw quick glances over my shoulder. I realize as I am doing it that this elaborate psychological approach is geared mostly towards me. Its’ based on another outside wisdom I acquired somewhere. It stated that as the pendulum move if you push too hard you lose the needed equilibrium. If, on the other hand, you stop pushing the other side will be forced to make a move. 

A movement behind the wood pile, I freeze with the coffee pitcher in my hand. Without moving my body, I turn my head slowly and immediately stop breathing. There is big buck standing there looking straight at me. Even though I am more than hundred feet away, and inside the kitchen the feeling that he can see me is overwhelming.  And then the animal does what I least expect, almost as if finishing a thorough assessment and finding me harmless it shrugs its shoulders and step into the open. 

I can’t believe it; this huge animal who managed to blend so well with the snow and the trees chooses to reveal itself. I walk slowly towards the window afraid it will evaporate into the air like a mirage that no, it’s as real as the snow and the trees and the wood pile. This beautiful animal is just standing there and completely unfazed by me, behind the window; he chews on some yellow blades of last year’s grass. 

Every once in awhile for no apparent reason his skin ripples and his ears perk up and turn as if to hear far away sounds. It picks his head and scans the forest behind him and then obviously satisfied with the results turns back to chewing. 

I watch him for awhile and then unwillingly return to my morning chores. When I look back few minutes later I catch its back walking into the forest slowly and unhurried. Two seconds later as if he was merging into the trees, he is gone.

Seasons of flowers

Seasons of flowers

When the last heap of the winter’s snow melts into the warming earth, and the Lupines burst out of the ground like small green flames, fresh looking, and ready for another season I inhale.  I waited for them all winter long, relishing on the assurance that once the snow recedes and the ground warms up they will break open from its frozen hold. Soon their heads constitute of dozens purple beads will mature and open.

After eight years of tending to my garden I now know what to expect, first the Lupines, then the orange Azalea, in the corner of the front garden. It will be followed by the green wide-leafed Hostas, (commonly known as hostas, plantain lilies particularly in Britain, and occasionally by the Japanese name giboshi.) and already I am peeking every morning at the far end of the lawn watching for the Rhododendron to show its clusters of pink flowers, relieved that it survived another winter. I watch the Lilacs in the back, heavy with fragrant flowers, and just as the Lupines fade the Wisteria is coming to life. So dazzled by the spring bloom I almost forget to notice my Clematis, the one I uprooted and brought with me when we moved here, and is now rewarding me, clinging to my entrance door, with its glorious giant flowers.

Talking about uprooting I think of my Wild Orange Daylilies (Hemerocallis fulva). Those I met for the first time when I came to the US. Seeing them growing at the side of the road, they immediately became my favorites. There were none on the grounds of the motel when we got here, but I read that they can be easily transplanted from other gardens and that what I did.  One of the ladies in our housekeeping stuff brought me a box full, and I planted them along the ditch that runs the length of our front border, separating the motel from the road. I was not sure how the young plants were going to take, but with each year they become bigger and bigger. This year marks the sixth year from the time I planted them.  As I mow the lawn, I make sure to inspect them and marvel at their somewhat unruly appearance, and bright orange flowers that can be seen clearly from the far side of our lawn. Each one blooms for one day and is gone until next year.

I give myself credit for another small addition to our lawn’s flora; this one took just a small intervention on my side when I planted some new nine cattails (Typha latifolia) in the muddy ditch. A bunch of them grew on the right side of the road leading in, but being another favorite of mine I wanted them to spread to the other side. So I bought some young shoots and climbed into the murky water to plant them. They are still young and frail looking, but holding their ground. 

Three months of glory in my garden, starting with anticipation and the swelling of the buds, to the burst of growing, ending with the slow process of perish.

Then fall comes with its pallet of reds and yellows that fade into somber browns. With the fall come my least favorite flowers, the mums, (Wild Chrysanthemum taxa). When I see them, I feel how tired I am from the summer frenzy, maybe ready for the winter slumber. I am ashamed to say that everything about this flower annoys me, and for years I refused to plant them, but being an obvious choice to give my decks some last minute color, I resign to buying few and stick them in the planters.

When the curtains finally draw and winter descends I think of my wild lilies, and the next summer when I will zoom by them caressing them with proud maternal look, they make me ponder about patience, and persistence, and about living it for all it worth when all you have is one day to live.

*Names of plants from Wikipedia