I’m reminded this morning to slow down and take a few minutes to breathe in the new colors of our garden outside. It’s the peonies, sitting on our dining room table, releasing ants for dog and kiddo to catch, that make me appreciate this moment. This day, May 26, rolls around only once a year and while the date is of no importance, the moment where peonies, pincushion flowers and the little princess spirea are blooming is significant. Gardens change in seasons. Certain plants bloom at certain times and it’s fitting to enjoy them at their peak.

There’s a beauty in planting a garden from scratch. We walked into our home in December 2001, greeted by very little grass in the backyard and a whole lot of ugly. There was an empty dog run taking up a ridiculous amount of space in our small city lot. A tall privacy fence blocked our yard from the four cute children next door. An RV had been parked almost up to the back door and the dirt in the “parking spot” was saturated with oil and other nastiness. Our front porch, formerly existing as housing for any and all clutter owned by the previous homeowner, was cordoned off to outsiders and bore a sign saying, “No Solicitors!” There was no front garden to speak of.

So we moved into the place knowing that our new neighbor (and pastor and friend) loved to garden. Since I worked with him in the church office, he was constantly asking me when I wanted a few transplants from his gardens. I’m pretty sure Brad ended up in the yard with a shovel and a plant or two, and that’s how we got rolling.

The delight in going from a yard of nothing to a yard of something is that we can look at every plant and recall something about its origin. The south side of the house sees the bee balm that Brad unceremoniously deposited in the earth. It has taken a beating (there was that one summer I didn’t water it hardly at all), but still produces gorgeous purple flowers that both bees and Beccas appreciate. There is the unbelievably healthy variegated dogwood bush in the backyard that Jeremy and my dad planted. It was so small in the beginning; hard to believe considering how huge it is now. We trim it back every year to prevent it from taking over the universe. More recently, I’m seeing a second wave of perennials as they move around the yard. Sometime in the last eight years—I can’t say exactly when—Jeremy became quite the gardener and began his work as Master Gardener around here. Since then he has planted, and now transplanted, numerous plants. There’s the salvia, sedum, grasses and black-eyed susans now bordering the alley in the furthest point in our yard. They all began in different locations but have been divided and then transplanted according to the Master’s will. The peonies, which make me happy beyond explanation, came from a cardboard box at Sam’s Club. Only two bulbs (if that’s what you call what I found in that box) turned into the glorious plants that shoot from the ground each spring. And then there are the plants I can’t even name because Jeremy picked them out and planted them on his own.

There is something deeply satisfying about the garden. It’s an investment in both one’s spirit and one’s future, and it’s rewards are seemingly endless.

Excuse me, I spy another healthy black ant on my table, another escapee from the petals of the pink peonies in front of me.

The magnificent purple trees you see around town right now are redbuds. Some are quite large, but most are smallish trees. And they are absolutely gorgeous this time of year.

A few years back, our friend Karma gave us a teeny tiny redbud. It looked like a weed of a tree and was so small we had to mark it in the garden so that we wouldn’t accidentally step on it or pull it up. But Karma told us that this tree would grow successfully—and she was right.

Finally our tree, now as tall as the garage, has actual red buds on it. It’s taken three years (or it is four?), but we’re seeing the trademark blossoms. And we’re enjoying them like the proud parents we are.

I love this season. Have I said that before? ; )

Here we have photographic evidence that spring can’t be held back, that winter can’t last forever. Praise God for these small flowers of promise!

Livia and I scouted for living plants a few days ago and you would’ve thought we had found buried treasure by our excitement. I suppose, in a sense, we did find buried treasure. Clusters of crocus, purple and gold. Hurray for spring!

Praise God from Whom all blessings flow…

Praise Him, all creatures here below…

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host…

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Does anyone know the name of this plant? Christina? Karma?

The Sunken Gardens really are phenomenal right now. (Or at least they were gorgeous two days ago when we visited. It’s since gotten pretty chilly in the mornings, but no frost yet.)

The flowers and bushes are at their peak of beauty, their enormous blooms almost hide garden paths from view. A few months ago I could see little heads pretty much anywhere in the park, but Monday I had a hard time keeping an eye on Livia while shooting various blossoms.

It’s no wonder Claude Monet painted water lilies. I was captured by these purple flowers in particular and wanted to preserve them just the way they were that afternoon, with the sun glowing brilliantly on the purple petals.

We saw Over the Rhine last night in Omaha. It was a last-minute kind of thing and I’m soooo very grateful we got to go. It was a fun ride up and back with the Koenigs, and of course the concert was great. Oh to sing like Karin Bergquist! That woman has amazing control of her voice, say nothing of her stage presence. (Jeremy asked me where she was from and I’m now reading on the OtR website of her “torchy, devil-may-care voice, brimming with Midwestern soul.” There ya have it, JT.) I foresee more Over the Rhine albums in my future.

Today feels nothing like a Tuesday. Sunday morning perhaps, but definitely not Tuesday. Tuesdays have responsibilities and schedules and chores and so far I’ve polished off a large quantity of Diet Mountain Dew, assisted in DVD playing for Liv, and watched a giant spider wrap up it’s prey in the flower garden. Tuesday, really? Tuesday-after-a-Monday-night-date? Yes, definitely.

Now if only I can squeeze a nap in between reading some Harry Potter and avoiding the dishes piled up in my sink.

Happy Friday everyone!

I finally printed this shot and placed it above my desk. In a nutshell, I want to celebrate lovely things as well as motivate myself as an artist. Most of my photos (99.9% I’d imagine) remain in digital format and never see life outside of my computer. This week I’ve worked to change that and now I’m enjoying the fruits of my labor, in many senses.

I’m off to oversee two little girls among a mass of Playdoh, train a small white dog not to jump on the little girls or eat the Playdoh, and perhaps, if I play my cards right, I’ll get to read the newspaper as well. Happy day to you!

1) These peas taste delicious. I’m amazed I had anything to do with the production of them. Granted, I did very little in the whole scheme of things, but between the Tredway Three, we did plant, water, weed and pick the pea plants. So that’s something.

2) My husband and child like peas far more than I do. Each little pod I harvest goes straight from garden to mouth. I have five little plants set up, though, so eventually we might save up enough for a real meal.

3) I selected this shot for the peas but then found myself gazing at my hands. At first I thought they looked kind of old. Later I realized that I have my Grandma Iola’s hands—and even when Grandma was younger, she seemed old to me. Indeed, this is a photo of a pea pod in a young/old lady’s hand. Ha.