I sat on the porch and watched the fish this morning. It was a goldfish orgy in my pond. I’ve never seen the likes—menage e trios, fish swapping and more as the little gold, white and black flecked bodies undulated all over each other and the algae. I’m hoping there won’t be a fish population explosion. I may be finally forced to calculate how many fish can stay healthy in my 8,000 gallon pond.

Speaking of algae, it’s out of control. I’ve five water lilies, a stand of yellow flags (water iris), miniature cattails, corkscrew reeds, variegated iris and parrot plant and thriving, but it’s not anywhere near the 70% shade level needed to control the algae. I better get some UV blocker dye right away before it gets totally out of balance in there.

I broke the last weir on the waterfall a week ago. I was balanced precariously on slippery stones reaching to pluck errant sunflowers--who thought it might be fun to grow in the stream—when the precarious side overcame the balance part and I kerplunked forward onto the granite flagstone that was cemented in place as the final cascade from waterfall to pond. And now a week later dear hubby has gone golfing twice and still not found the time to set a new stone in place. The serendipity of the whole accident? We were always disappointed that the weir stone was really too short for the opening, so we “spliced” in two smaller flagstones on either side. This time DH decided to get the right size stone. He did at least make it to the stone store (quarry, yard?) on Saturday. I do believe I will encourage him with all my might tomorrow to get it set in place.

The harder I work in my garden, the less I post…but never enough “thyme”, eh? Working full time leaves me only a half hour or so in the morning and a couple of hours in the evening if I’m up to it. I can’t even visit all my plant friends in that limited time frame—so the work is left for Saturday. For instance, last Saturday, I got into the garden at 7:00 AM and finally went in at 8:00 PM. That would be against the law for an employer to extract that sort of labor with no breaks, but in my garden I’m mesmerized, rejuvenated and relaxed, even as the sweat runs into my eyes and the twinges in my back remind me I’m "plenty-nine" years old. During the week I can spend a few Zen hours watering or plucking an errant plant here or there…those things some might call weeds. Here is what I learn when watering: it’s good to be fluid. Flow into the spaces that present themselves and refresh the life around you. Seems a good metaphor to live by. The picture is of my nieces Kaylee and Lizzie enjoying the fluid nature of the stream in my front yard.

Today I am sunburned. Every year I tell myself I'll be smarter and not stay out so long early in the spring when my skin is pale and vulnerable from a winter of staying indoors. But the garden pulls me and I can't say no. Things are growing! In the season of dividing the living from the dead, I am the Gardener who clears away the crust of winter’s grip. I’m in the garden by 8:00 AM on Saturday, intending to work for a few hours. But suddenly I blink and the sun is low in the western sky. I scurry to finish planting pansies, haul one more load of compost. People think me crazy, but truly, I am entranced by my garden. Meaning the hours flow by without my noticing—I must be in some sort of altered state of consciousness. Who in their right mind is revived by 10 hours or more of hard labor? Only a gardener. When I come in, my feet ache, my mouth is dry and my hands are slowly desiccating. I know the month of the year by the amount of dirt permanently embedded at the sides of my nail and the cracks in my fingers. I am a gardener. Today is the Sabbath and I am usually at church. A day of rest. I believe in that firmly, but today was General Conference for my church and regular meetings aren’t held. I thought I’d only plant a flat of pansies I didn’t get to last night, so I plugged in the radio to listen to Conference and before I knew it, it was 4:00 P.M.. I planted the pansies, dug up and transplanted hollyhocks and divided and potted up perennials to exchange at a plant swap this week. Some in my faith might say I broke the Sabbath. But God and I walked together in my garden today. Maybe He’ll forgive me.

I've been pruning my roses. I never think about how many I have in my 1/4 acre yard--until I start to prune. There are twenty-six roses scattered through the yard. I'm not one for the formal, stiff looking "rose garden". My roses hold their own among the hollyhocks, daises, zinnias, lambs ear, chives, and hundreds of other plants woven into my cottage-garden style flowerbeds. I can't really call them borders, because in the traditional sense of the word, I have no border. I have no lawn. I only have planting areas massed with flowers, a 20 foot by 12-foot vegetable plot and paths, patios and porches. But I digress...back to the roses.

I have six climbers--two in back, four in the front. The photo to the left is of my climbing New Dawn in the back. I also have three David Austen antique English roses, four hybrid teas, seven miniature roses, five in pots and one tree rose (a standard form of a tea). Twenty-six all together! Well, alas, twnety-fix now--no tree rose I must confess...because I've decided the tree rose is D.U.S.... Dead Upon Spring. Sigh. I always lusted after a tree rose, splurged last year and the thing succumbed to winterkill. Should I have put him in the ground instead of a large pot? Should I have burlaped and coddled the poor critter? Well then, away with him! I don't have the time or patience for high-maintenance plants. (Sandra, my good friend, says I should call myself The Ruthless Gardener.) I'll try another tree rose this spring and then see what next year brings. Ah, the eternal optimism of the gardener.
I've been pruning off and on for three weeks now. My arms and hands are in a continual state of scratched dishabille. In the War of the Roses, I’m never sure if I’m victorious until the first blooms spill their fragrance in the early summer air. But still I perform the yearly triage—a dead branch here, a broken one there, and worst of all the healthy one growing in the totally wrong direction. It’s thorns in my heart to cull those wildly growing but WRONG shoots, but ruthless I am and ruthless I’ll stay.

It rained today. This is a good thing in March after nearly three weeks of record temperatures. Not middle of desert scorch temperatures we get in July, but still. It was something more decadent feeling--70 degrees in mid-March! The bulbs, like wine-muddled debutantes the day after the ball, stretch luxuriously towards the warmth. Crocuses have come and gone, brief flashes of light in the gray mornings of early spring, and now the daffodils nod to the pansies at their feet, beckoning the tulips to hurry and dance in the sun.
And then rain came today, gray and cold, reminding us that March at the feet of the mountains is meant to morph winter to spring with a slow grace. We’ve forgotten that this year, the bulbs and I. I’ve had to remind the daffodils, those sad ladies bending their cup faces to the ground today, mourning the loss of the sun. I’ve told them to think of the peas in the vegetable garden and to be patient. April’s grace isn’t far away.

I have to give credit to Brian F., my muse (or would that be bluse?) for inspiring me to share my garden views with the world. I'll think of my views later, but for now, I'm seeing if this is set up right and people can find it. Today the crocus are dying back but the daffodils are out and pansies are turning their leonine faces to the sun. It's March. It's spring--the season of beginnings.