The future has arrived... today

July 6th will mark the official 7 year anniversary of when I started this blog. This week marks the 7 year anniversary of when Hubby and I formally filed and formed our corporation, Rosehaven Cottage Inc. with me as the CEO and him as the VP-of-everything-else. We had the foresight to know that we needed to incorporate and created a corporate "umbrella" for my creative pursuits that would follow... but that's about all we could foresee.  

Seven whole years is the longest I've ever "worked" at one job. I started this creative journey fueled by the creative spark digital photography had re-lit within me after I'd been on a creative hiatus for a while. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do along the way or what I wanted to grow into becoming. I simply knew that I wanted to create beautiful things to be appreciated and consumed visually by others.

I am a classic introvert by nature (as many bloggers are) so I spent years trying to hide behind the moniker "Cindy at Rosehaven Cottage". It was easy to write blog posts about my garden so a large portion of my posts were focused on the outdoor life. Writing about our house, Rosehaven Cottage, was easy too, so I shared some of our DIY adventures here too. The title "Rosehaven Cottage" became synonymous with gardening and home improvement and "Cindy at Rosehaven Cottage" was seen as a "garden blogger". The audience that this blog attracted ended up being more interested in my green thumb and sledgehammer-wielding skills and less about the creative career I was building and very passionate about. 

Like many things in the digital realm, blogging has gone through evolutions and I've seen it go through a few in the seven years I've had this blog. The current trend in blogging is leaning toward catching and retaining readers with slick Pinterest-ready posts full of helpful tips or with attention-getting titles that lure a reader to read the blogger's personal insights, philosophies and musings. Several big-time blogs have had to revamp their way of doing business in order to remain financially viable now that content is often generated on mobile devices that don't accommodate sidebar advertising. They've had to resort to embedded advertising within blog posts to keep generating revenue. And none of that is what I'm really focused on in my "real life".

What is my "real life"? Some of you may already know the answer to that question but some of you may not. Here's the answer...

I am a professional photographer, artist and graphic designer. I am a business owner (technically a "CEO"). My business is about creating visual images that:

• have been licensed to appear on stationery you might have seen when you were shopping for just the right card for a special occasion. 
• are sold as canvases, fine art prints, cards and cell phone cases
• are sold as digital files to other creative professionals that incorporate my work into their own work like websites/blogs, advertising, publications, crafts and derivative art 

For the past several months, I've been at a professional crossroads regarding this blog. I am at an exciting point in my creative career where I am seeing my dreams becoming realities. This is wonderful but it has created a conundrum I've had to face. As a creative professional whose work is of a visual medium, my online presence (some call it "brand") needs to remain professional. My online posts can't just be an open garden journal. They can't be filled with personal musings that I then wish I hadn't published a week after I have. And I also cannot hide behind the moniker "Cindy at Rosehaven Cottage" and be taken seriously by my creative peers and mentors.

This is why I've spent the past couple of months creating and fine-tuning a new online presence at www.CindyGarberIverson.com. It is a cohesive and responsive format so anyone can enjoy it on a smartphone, a tablet or a desktop computer. And I have integrated a blog into the design that I will be posting to regularly as I release new work. Coupled with social media like Instagram (where I'll still share some photographic snippets of what's happening in the garden), I am embarking on a new blogging journey that will be all about my creative pursuits and passions. If you follow me on Pinterest, you can be a fly on the wall as I gather inspiration for new projects and you can watch the early stages of my creative process "real-time" (so if you start to see me pinning lots of photos of vintage sinks you can bet that it has something to do with what I'm working on at the moment).

I'm finally doing it. I'm finally being what I always wanted to be when I grew up. As one of my favorite songs by The All-American Rejects (on the Meet The Robinsons soundtrack) says... the future has arrived!

The future's arrived

Nobody can doubt

The future is what everything's about

It's better for you

It's better for me

It's better than what everybody thought it would be

It's time to create

Time to grow

If you're feeling right

The world

Yeah she's changing

And life's rearranging

Don't it make you feel alive?

The future has arrived

See you over at CindyGarberIverson.com

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven...

More than anything else, the process of creating and maintaining my garden as a backyard wildlife habitat has taught me the true meaning of the wisdom found in the Old Testament of the Bible in Ecclesiastes chapter 3:

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak..."

For almost seven years, I've blogged about the journey that my garden and home have taken me on. It was a season when I needed to write of these things—"a time to speak". Now I am entering a new season of sharing my view of the world through the photographic image without using words—"a time to keep silence".

I want my photographs to not be a reflection of my own experience. I want each of my photographs to tell a different personal story depending on the person looking at the image. My words would simply get in the way. This is also why I am turning off comments. Comments won't be necessary. I want you to simply enjoy the images I share.

Here's to the beginning of a new season!  

I guess my real name should be Captain Mary Amy Belle Emma Tinkerbell Grantham

Maybe you've seen the results of those online quizzes... or maybe you haven't and I'm the only one looking at people's Facebook feeds... 

Anyway... there are a slew of quizzes at places like one named in the image above so you can find out things like "Which Celeb Should Be Your Roomate". You can also finally answer the question "Which Character From The Princess Bride Are You?"

I'm usually not one to click through on stuff like that because I know the risk involved. But every once in a while I'm tempted enough to go over to one of the legit sites and take one of the quizzes (okay, I've taken more than one). What's pretty funny is that they are often quite accurate in describing my personality. It's amusing to say the least. 

After I get done taking one of the quizzes, I'll laugh out loud and Hubby will ask, "What's so funny?" and then I'll tell him I took a quiz and he'll never guess what my result was. So every time I've taken a quiz, Hubby has ended up privy to the result. 

Last week, we were texting back and forth during the day and I sent him a link to an iPhone cover I had fallen in love with. He sweetly ordered it for me before replying and then texted me that he had. I admitted that I couldn't make myself order it on my own (it felt too self-indulgent even though it was just an iPhone case to replace my broken one). His response was, "I know... you freak-a-zoid" followed by "I love you".

My response?

Referencing all the quiz results I've had in the past few weeks I texted, "Anyone who is Tinkerbell AND Mary from Sherlock AND Amy Farrah Fowler AND Belle AND Lord Grantham is definitely a freak-a-zoid."*

He texted back that I made him laugh out loud (really). And the visual of all those characters mashed into one, makes me chuckle right now as I'm typing this.

And for the record... I forgot to include in that text a few other results. I'm most like the Avenger Captain America. And if I were a character from Once Upon a Time I'd be Emma.

* For those not familiar with the characters listed they are as follows:

• Tinkerbell from the Disney movie Peter Pan
• Mary Morstan from BBC's Sherlock
• Amy Farrah Fowler from CBS's Big Bang Theory
• Belle from the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast
• Lord Grantham from Downton Abbey

Bucket lists and visualization techniques–is there a place in my life for them?

Today, I heard an interview with the celebrity Brooke Burke where this 40-something mother of four candidly said that she felt the reason why she's been realizing her dreams in the past few years is because she wrote about her wants and desires publicly on her blog and such. She felt like this visualizing exercise of openly sharing her "bucket list" made it all happen.

You know how most of the time when you listen to interviews and it's entertaining but most of it just passes on through? Then every so often... just once in a while... something that is said doesn't pass on through but sticks around in your head and rattles around? That was me today.

I pondered Brooke's concept of visualization and whether I felt it had validity in my own life. I also found myself pondering the value of having a "bucket list" (a concept I've never embraced or considered embracing).

I thought about it. What would I write on my blog if I were to follow Brooke's example? If (and that's a big IF) I were to compile a "bucket list" what would be on it? Would I publish it publicly? Does it even matter in the whole eternal scheme of things?

I have to say, I honestly don't know. The things that I cherish and the things that matter most to me don't need a visualization exercise in order to bring them into fruition. And they are usually so personal I wouldn't want to share them publicly. They are too precious.

I found myself asking the question, "Is this why the world's definition of 'success' eludes me? Because I don't do what Brooke Burke has done?" Then I asked myself, "Does society's vision of 'success' really matter all that much to me? Do I even care?"

My mind wandered to a photo I took on Saturday at my niece's 1 year birthday celebration (the photo above). All the children at the party had dumped the toys out of the toy bucket and were gleefully playing–the evidence of their play activity strewn about the floor.

It seemed like an apt symbol for why I haven't really engaged in either bucket list formation practices or visualization techniques (unless compiling Pinterest boards counts as "visualization"... then I have).

I know the term "bucket list" comes from the idea that it is a list of all the things one wants to accomplish before "kicking the bucket" (dying). I get that. But that way of looking at life and death isn't my style.

I think of life as a gathering exercise–a time to glean as much information, education, experience, knowledge as possible as well as gathering meaningful connections and relationships. I feel like I'm walking around with a big tub (like the one in the photo above). I hold that tub under one arm and it rests on one hip. I go around collecting "items" to put into my bucket much like a beachcomber gathering seashells along a shoreline. The bucket never gets full. It's bottomless (like Mary Poppins' carpet bag). It can hold infinite amounts of intangible treasures. Carrying this bucket isn't just about gathering, but also about sharing. Sharing makes the bucket fuller instead of depleting it. Sharing adds more than it takes away.

I suppose this is why I've never made a "bucket list" because my bucket isn't going to get "kicked" when I die. It's going to come with me. It's the only thing I can take with me. And if I'm gathering with that end-goal in mind, it seems that visualization exercises don't fit into the picture either.

Or do they? What do you think?

Thank you Downton Abbey for reminding me of my blessed heritage with your beautiful season finale

Last night, Hubby and I watched the season 4 finale of Downton Abbey. Toward the end of the episode the staff has a day off at the seaside. The scenes were composed and shot simply yet beautifully—directing and cinematography done very well produce such stellar results (as seen below).

During these scenes at the beach, two characters (Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson) go wading in the chilly surf. The almost dialogue-free exchange was charming and heartwarming.

I know when I'm watching great television when I have the experience of being emotionally and/or mentally transported to something very personal. And this particular scene did just that. I found myself recalling old family photographs from albums over 100 years old of my great-great grandmother, Jessie Rae Munce, wading in the California surf with her granddaughters and daughter in the summer of 1910.

Jessie was 68 years old in the above photograph. And like the water that the characters on Downton Abbey were wading in, I'm certain that the Pacific waters were quite chilly on Jessie's feet (water temperatures along the northern coast of California are never really warm).

When I found this photograph of Jessie, I fell in love with its candidness and frivolity—a "pull up your skirts girls because no one cares" sort of attitude. It represents an interesting time in history when things were changing. I am certain that my transplanted Scottish grandmother, her daughters, and her granddaughters were right there leading the way here in the San Francisco Bay Area. Their faces in the above photo tell me that. They're modern leanings are also evident in the fact that even though they weren't wealthy, they still had a camera with them at what seems like every family outing and then paid the money to have the film processed and printed.

Today, thanks to that wonderfully produced episode of Downton Abbey, my heart is full of gratitude for so much of what I owe to my incredible forebears.

Jessie and her husband, John, made difficult sacrifices to come to the U.S. from Glasgow, Scotland in the 1870s. John came first, leaving Jessie behind with 4 children. Jessie came later wrangling those 4 children on her own. John's job as a metalworker with a railroad company allowed them to work their way across the United States from the east coast to the west coast having 2 children along the way in New York and Indiana (how hard must that have been for Jessie?). Their last 4 children were born in the San Francisco Bay Area. Their youngest was my great grandfather, William Munce, who ended up marrying Elsie Pump (pictured above) and their oldest was my grandmother (aka Grammy) Elsie Munce (the kid playing in the sand not looking at the camera in the above photo).

It is because of Jessie and John that I can happily say I am a 4th generation Bay Area native. I was privileged to be born a U.S. citizen because of them. I was blessed to love the sea, the beach and the coast because of them. I am certain that I even owe my love of photography to them because of their love of it over 100 years ago.

Yes, I know I've witnessed great television when all this emotion and gratitude can be inspired by it.

Coming to love a mountain

I grew up without it on my horizon. 

I didn't understand its allure. 

But then I moved to within sight of it. 

And I understand the hold it has on those it watches over. 

Legend says that those born within its shadow

may try to leave it for a time

but will always be drawn back to live in its presence once again.

I finally understand.

One tiny twinkling star

Imagine...

one tiny twinkling star

in the dark night

makes all the difference

to the person navigating a journey

with nothing else to guide them.

Let your light so shine

it may be someone's

one tiny twinkling star.

Dropped and forgotten? Or lost and always missed?

While walking, I happened upon a guitar pick on the sidewalk.

It left me wondering...

Was it dropped and forgotten?

Or was it someone's favorite or "lucky" pick?

Something they never intended to lose

that they will always miss for the music it created in their hand?

A yellow rose is the promise of a new beginning

Years of Septembers starting out with
new grades,
new teachers
and new learning horizons
embedded in my mind
that August is the month that teeters on the precipice of new beginnings.

My heart often yearns for
the beginning of a new school year--
to feel the excitement of anticipating the frontiers that held
new knowledge,
new insights,
and learning new skills.

It seems fitting that the yellow rose should be the symbol of the promise of new beginnings.

August is the month of sunny yellows and bright oranges--
colors that radiate the warmth of an August sun
shining on beachgoers as they enjoy the last few weeks of
a summer no one wants to end.

August finds my heart torn between two worlds...
that of the endless-summer-seeking beachgoer
and that of the anticipatory student.

At once
holding on to every sun-filled moment to savor it and hope it never ends
while
looking to the horizon wondering what adventures lie beyond.

The roses featured in this post are 'Golden Showers' climbing roses

Pain, pain go away come again some other day

Notes to self:

1. When it is excruciatingly hot and humid outside, don't try to fill up the green waste cans just because collection is the next day.
2. When Hubby tells you it's time to come inside... listen to him.
3. When you are staggering from heat exhaustion, don't try to do just "one more thing" even if it's just bending over to pick up your pruners.
4. When you feel a tweak in your sciatic region, ice it immediately and don't let it get so aggravated that it goes into full spasm.
5. When you ignore all of the above advice (because you know you will): lay down; let your back heal; don't try to go out and photograph anything; go through your archives of thousands of photos to find one to post (like the one above); re-post-process the photo on your iPad while you're still laying down... and try not to be too wistful about how you could be escaping this blistering heat someplace else cooler not too far of a drive away if you would have followed "notes to self" 1 through 4.

By the way, I shot the above photo 

while I was looking up 

from the streets of San Francisco's historic Chinatown 

on a visit a few summers ago.

Lavender, Japanese water iris, and one little worker bee

At the base of the deck stairs there are two large terra cotta pots--one on each side. In each pot is a single massive globe of lavender. The pots sit on the ground so each of the lavender bushes have most assuredly sent tap roots down through their respective drainage holes by now and firmly rooted themselves where they sit. Winter frosts are not severe enough to kill their foliage, so they are growing year round. Sometimes in the winter they are the only thing blooming in the garden.

If I sit at the base of the stairs (which I often do), I can sit and watch a plethora of activity in either of the lavender plants. Bees, butterflies, flies, wasps and even hummingbirds come to sip the nectar from the tiny lavender blossoms.

The other morning, I was sitting on the lowest stair with my camera. On schedule, the tall grasses that I've let grow tall (probably too tall) have changed from a spring green to a pale golden blonde color. That means it's summer. The color of the lavender blooms against the grass in the background looked so magical to me in the clear sunshine. I wanted to see if I could capture that magic.

Every once in a while I'd see if I could catch a bee on one of the blossoms, but they darted from one blossom to the other so fast I couldn't focus quickly enough. So I gave up. I was content capturing the lavender.

Before I went inside I walked across the path to take a couple of shots of the new Japanese water iris bloom that had emerged deep dark and regal in its purple majesty.

It wasn't until today when I sat down to post-process my shots that I discovered that I had captured a perfectly in focus shot of bee completely by accident. Just one shot. That's all. It only takes just one. I had no idea that I had gotten that shot when I took it. It was what I call "photographic serendipity"--a fleeting magical moment that I just happened to capture with my camera.

As I look at the three shots in this post, I am struck by some observations...

The Japanese water iris is a showy flower that grabs attention before anything else. It stands in a proud pose as if it wants to be photographed. I could see it from the other side of the garden. I was drawn in by it. Most flower photographers would immediately gravitate toward it with their cameras and shoot away.

Then there's the delicate, humble and understated lavender. Although one stalk is lovely, the real beauty happens when the stalks are all together. En masse the purple stalks create a lovely show against the straw background.

But, to me, the most engaging photograph of the three is the one with the solitary bee flying away from the camera. One little bee. She's not fancy or showy. She's just a little worker bee. But her presence in the composition makes it magical.

In this world there people who are Japanese water irises. They are people that draw your attention immediately because of their sheer beauty. They are few and far between.

In this world there are many more people who are lavender. They are humble and understated. The trials of life are all around them but winter's trials don't take them down. They just keep going. Alone they may not have a great impact--at first glance. But when these wonderful individuals come together they can create amazing beauty--wonderful beautiful acts of kindness, charity, and compassion that can move mountains.

And, also in this world, there are people who are the plain worker bees. They are small. They go about their work with determination and often without accolades or recognition. But... one little worker bee can make a difference. One little worker can change the overall picture without even knowing it. One little worker bee can create magic.

This is dedicated to all the "lavender people" and "little worker bee people" right now in Oklahoma.

Early blooming rudbeckia... why couldn't I have been like you?

A patch of rudbeckia blooms early this year--probably because it overwintered quite well and didn't have to play catch up.

How I wish I didn't always feel like I was always playing catch up.

I listen to podcasts of accomplished creative twenty-somethings. I often find myself thinking, "Why couldn't I have been that together at that age? Why couldn't I see what I really wanted... no, needed to be?"

Old enough to be a mother to many of them, I feel like I'm only beginning to emerge...

A reluctant late-bloomer, I feel so behind.

Self-talk riddled with "should have's" clogs my thoughts. Hubby says I'm "should-ing" all over myself. He's right. I know it. Yet I can only make the "should-ing" go away for short periods of time before it's back jamming up my creative senses to the point where I can't hear anything but their clamor.

It is then that I retreat to photography...

Eight years ago, it was photography that pulled me from the dark abyss I had entered when I abandoned all creative and artistic pursuits and swore I wouldn't try again. After 10 years of trying to "make it", I had been rejected by so many gatekeepers and curators of the world of creative professionals that I couldn't do it anymore. I had determined I was not talented enough or educated enough to rub shoulders with those that called themselves "professional artists". I figured I had missed the boat by not getting my act together in my early twenties. I concluded it was my own stupid fault and, despite the ache inside, I had to accept this self-imposed sentence. I was bruised and my dreams had been crushed so many times, I decided to quash them altogether.

But eight years ago, walking along a beach on the north shore of Oahu with a little Sony Cybershot digital camera in my hand, I let my photographic passion come out to play. The place (one I consider to be a personal safe haven), the moment and nature combined forces and reached out to the part of me locked deep inside--so deep I thought it wasn't there anymore. There was enough of a spark to start a small flame, and as I allowed myself to fan the flame it grew progressively brighter as the months passed.

In the years since then, I've often thought that photography was just the entry point to get me back on the creative track.

But maybe I'm wrong...  maybe photography is my destination and not a stop along the journey.

Maybe that is why when the "should-ing" in my head becomes overwhelming, I retreat to photography and not drawing or painting.

When I look at it that way, then I don't feel so far behind. I don't feel like such a late bloomer. I don't feel out of step or weighed down with thoughts of, "You should have done something long before now..."

Why? I don't know. It just is. And photography takes me there.

Reflections on being brave

"Don't take the big camera out with you," I silently say to myself, "Just take the iPhone. Only the iPhone."

The clear light is so beautiful... and so fleeting.

My photographer's heart tries to argue with my head, "You could miss something really special and not have the good lens with you. You've got to go back and get the real camera... not this toy."

By this time, I'm out the back door and already seeing the first photographic opportunity as the sun shines hot and bright through the glimmering petals of newly bloomed snapdragon volunteers growing in a pot from last year's seed.  



The garden kitty greets me and meows for me to stay. Good thing. Otherwise, I'd be back inside in a flash to pick up the "big gun". I sit down on the deck stairs behind an overflowing pot of lavender alive with the movement of bees and the intermittent May breeze. Again, the light is perfect. I can't really see what I'm shooting. I can barely make out the display from the glare.

"How do these iPhonographers do this?" my heart says as my head says, "Just persevere. You can see it all later out of the sun."

Oddly, the roles of head and heart are reversed (again) with my head the creative brave part of me and my heart the cowardly lion. My head tells me I must push myself to explore new creative horizons and places I haven't experienced yet. My heart wants to go back to the comfy cozy place where it feels all warm and fuzzy--the creative terrain I've tread for some time now. This seems to be a theme for me for the past few years. I think of it as trying to "be brave". It's a strange thing for me to face.



When I was a kid I was used to change, new horizons to explore, and facing the unknown. After graduating high school, I had a perpetual case of wanderlust that lasted all through my twenties and into the early part of my marriage in my early thirties. Hubby and I got so good at traveling we had our carry-ons permanently packed with the essentials. All we had to do was throw in clothes for the trip and go. Change was exciting. Change was romantic. Change was a constant (if that makes sense).

Then we moved here. I settled into our home. After living here four years, I officially set a new life milestone for how many years I lived consecutively in the same house. Four years turned into eight. And eight years suddenly were twelve. Roots grow pretty deep in twelve years--in gardens and in people.

So is this why I am often facing the challenge to "be brave"?  Is this why it's so ridiculously difficult to take photos with my iPhone instead of my DSLR? It feels like it is, but maybe not.

Then I realize that by having roots that run so deep I am treading new territory--more unknown than any other horizon I've ever walked toward. Allowing myself to feel this sense of place... being like the oak tree instead of the dandelion... this could be the most brave I've ever been. And it's my heart that's leading me with this one.

The permanence of a handful of tiny white shells

When I see the small white canister covered in scrollwork on my shelf I know what's inside--tiny little seashells as big as my pinky fingernail. All of them are a pearly white except one.

This little canister has been around for as long as I can remember. And I've always known what it contained. It has always been so.

I remember it being one of the precious treasures found in one of my mom's dresser drawers--the jewelry and scarf drawer. This treasure, along with a solid cedar jewelry box full of sparkly baubles priceless only to a child, fascinated me. I never got in trouble going into the drawer and poking about. I usually left things the way I found them once I was done. I loved the woody-musky aroma of cedar that permeated everything in the drawer--especially the soft chiffon scarves I would wrap around my head or neck or hold up to my nose to breathe the scent in deeply. Often, I would pick up the canister and lightly shake it to hear the faint rattle of the shells inside. Very rarely, I opened it to see them. I was mostly satisfied just knowing they were there.

I don't know where the shells came from. I don't know how old they are. I just know they've always been there.

Now the canister is mine. It sits on a shelf in my studio above my head as I type this. It is a silly treasure only precious and priceless to me.

I rarely open it. I sometimes shake it lightly to hear the shells inside. I'm satisfied knowing they are still there.

Yesterday, I opened them and gently let them spill out onto my worktable so I could photograph them. One fell on the floor, and I couldn't see it right away. I searched for it frantically as if a 2 karat diamond had fallen from my grasp. I found it camouflaged in the pattern of my area rug. Whew! I placed it with the others. I took the photographs and then carefully put them all back in and screwed the top on tight.

Now I can look at the shells any time I want by looking at the photograph. Or I can reach up and gently shake the canister on the shelf above me. Either way, I'll be content knowing they are there.

Did you know there is no such thing as a "green thumb"?

A couple of days ago, while hunting for information about something else I stumbled upon an online article that has had me thinking ever since. The particular quote that I continue to contemplate says:

"Think about it, nobody digs and sows, plants and weeds, or sprays bugs in a forest. Still, all those chores are taken care of somehow. The forest grows and feeds its inhabitants, doesn't it? 

"If any task in your garden is an unpleasant chore then there is definitely a better way to do it or to eliminate it. Learn from nature. Nature has already developed a solution to every problem that you could possibly encounter in your garden." (from What is permaculture?)

The sentence I underlined hit a chord with me and has resonated long after I finished reading.





This resonation has caused me to reflect on one of the first unpleasant chores I eliminated when we moved here over 12 years ago--keeping a lawn. Although mowing the lawn was never a distasteful chore that I did growing up (I learned to enjoy it), the thought of pampering the lawn and coaxing it to be lush and green during our hot, dry summers was not a pleasant prospect.

An interesting chain of events followed that pivotal decision to eliminate any thought of a lawn. And the events came from seemingly unrelated sources:

• Just prior to moving here, I had read (and re-read) Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes and fallen under the spell of her descriptions of all the herbs and plants she and her husband put into their gardens as they restored the Tuscan villa the gardens surrounded.
• In trying to educate myself on growing herbs and edibles (particularly the ones Frances Mayes wrote about), I discovered the age-old practice of companion planting.
• My mom stumbled upon the website for the National Wildlife Federation where they gave instructions of creating a backyard wildlife habitat.
• I discovered drip irrigation systems at our local hardware store and realized I could hook up all the tubing myself to a timer at the tap so everything got watered at once and regularly. I only had to handwater if I wanted to as a relaxation activity.
• Hubby really wanted me to grow fresh tomatoes for him. I really wanted to grow roses and citrus for me.
• I discovered a collection of gorgeous rocks left by the previous owners under a pile of decomposing leaves and rediscovered how beautiful hardscape can be in the garden. Paths of pea gravel and flagstone looked "Tuscan" to me and, in my estimation, were far prettier than any old lawn.

I took things slowly as far as the design of the garden was concerned. I needed to get to know the seasons in my new climate. I needed to familiarize myself with how the light hit different parts of our lot and how water drained (or didn't). One can only do that by taking things slowly as the seasons roll in and out for at least a year or two. I somehow knew that.

I discovered that one of the most important garden chores I would engage in was sitting parked in a patio chair for long stints of time and simply observing. No earbuds with music from an iPod... no book to read... no one there to chat with... just me sitting alone with the garden. And the garden "told" me an awful lot about itself that I never would have "heard" otherwise.






What ended up happening was that I stumbled upon the very truth that I just read a couple of days ago. I had no idea I had lit upon a key aspect of permaculture. In fact, I'd never read about permaculture until I read the article I quote above.

But somehow my own garden taught me something that nature is always willing to teach anyone who will listen. "If any task in your garden is an unpleasant chore then there is definitely a better way to do it or to eliminate it."

I now enjoy a somewhat symbiotic relationship with my garden. It provides me with so much--particularly serenity. And it doesn't demand much of me in return because I've allowed nature to create a balance. I feel that I was guided through the process of discovering this truth by a much wiser power than my own intellect, so that I could enjoy what the article finally says:

"If you think ahead and design your permaculture garden right, it won't take much effort, it will mostly look after itself, and it will also be incredibly productive and beautiful and attractive to wildlife."

I wish I could somehow infuse that vision into others that they could see what lies ahead if they step back and let nature do it's thing. Oh how I wish I could. And that the result doesn't have to look like a tumble-down mess. It can have wonderful structure and still have nature taking care of most of the chores. Your garden can be inspired and designed after ones in Tuscany or cottage gardens in England or the great plains of the North American continent. The possibilities for inspiration are endless.

In the past 12 years, I've learned one more very important truth... there is no such thing as a "green thumb". Those individuals who appear to have a "green thumb" are actually seeking out and absorbing gardening information through every source possible and particularly through observation. That's the only difference between a "green thumb" and a "brown thumb".

Observations from studying a sunflower

Have you ever looked at the center of a sunflower... really looked? It's made up of tiny little flowers--golden stars so small you can't see them unless you look closely. It takes so many to make up the center. And each one becomes a seed someday.

Have you taken the time to stroke a sunflower petal gently between your fingers? It's soft and thin but supple and alive. It feels warm yet cool at the same time. How is that possible?

Have you stopped to realize that even though a bug has chewed a hole in some of the petals of a sunflower it's still incredibly beautiful? It doesn't matter that technically it's "flawed". It's beautiful. It epitomizes an entire season of the year. It can brighten someone's day in an instant. And it can do all this even with slight imperfections.

This particular bloom grew up into the branches of the Eureka lemon tree. With the support of the tree, the giant head of the sunflower didn't weigh down the stem. It never leaned over under the weight and held it's head up high even as the bloom began to fade.

So many lessons I can learn from the sunflower.

A slower pace of life under the white oleander bush

Whether it comes naturally to me or not, the pace of my life as of late has slowed way down. I've noticed that a lot of my day is very quiet without the sounds of music or television accompanying me--only the faint tinkling sound of a cat's bell as one of the kitties stirs between naps. A few years ago I used to fill my life with a lot of recorded music--usually very bouncy loud dance tunes with the bass turned up for optimal booming. But now... not so much.

When I first realized this shift in my habits I immediately thought, "Oh no! This is the first sign that I'm getting old!" I even asked Hubby, "What's wrong with me?!?!"

Then upon more reflection I've concluded that I've actually come around full circle to a pattern I had as a small child when we lived in a remote community of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. When the weather was cooperative and warm enough, my life had a similar pace as it does now. And my days were spent in blissful solitude as I roamed around our wooded property or basked in the clear mountain sunshine in our wildflower meadow. In silence, I would sit with the high grasses around me and watch butterflies flit from blossom to blossom. Every rustle or movement caught my attention and I would quietly look in the direction of the sound to see what it was--an elk, a jay bird or another forest creature. It was only during the cold inclimate months that I came inside and occupied my time with music from scratchy records played on my portable record player.

With my health limitations changing my current pace of life, I'm finding myself feeling the same sense of freedom I had as a child and the permission to just simply be. Daily, I venture out into the garden but now it isn't to do some major garden installation. I wander around and note the slight nuances of change as the garden goes through its seasons. I notice where some critter has visited since I last strolled through. Every rustle or movement draws my attention, and I'll look in the direction of the sound and wait until I can identify what it was.

Did you know that creatures in nature have what I call a "time out period"? When they sense human presence they scatter and become very quiet. But if the human settles in and becomes still and quiet, in about ten minutes nature's creatures come back and resume their activities as if the human isn't there. It happens with skittish fish in the water as well as the birds in the trees. Ten minutes of quiet stillness is all it takes and suddenly it's as if you're not even there.

Sitting in my chaise lounge under the wisteria, I've noticed the branches of the 50+ year old white oleander bush have grown enough this year to create a lovely canopy over my head. Periodically, a dried white blossom flutters down on me as I sit enjoying the splashing sound of the pond waterfall.

So many magical moments have happened under the white oleander.

I've had the wonderful honor of encountering the grey fox two more times since the night of the summer solstice when I first saw it. One of the encounters last week was before the sun had set and it was still "golden hour" in the garden. The fox made eye contact with me as it trotted casually through the thicket created by the oleander bush and the cherry tree. Because it was light outside and the fox wasn't in much of a hurry, I could see the beautiful nuances of its ticked fur, its long fluffy tail and the details of its exquisite face and eyes.

I'm relearning the pace I loved as a child. I'm realizing that slower and quieter pace brings with it an innocence and simplicity that fosters a calmness of one's inner core. That calmness is somehow sensed by nature. And nature rewards that calmness with incredible moments that require no soundtrack and no words. They are heavenly moments when the Creator feels closer than ever.

One question changed my heart this afternoon... "What are you thankful for today?"

This afternoon I received an unexpected email from Hubby while he was at work with the subject line "Being thankful today". In it he shared with me the top 5 things that he is thankful for today. Then he asked me, "What 5 things are you thankful for today?"

The spontaneous exercise of taking time to think of 5 things, write them down, and send them off to him in response to his email was just what I needed this afternoon (Hubby has an intuitive way of knowing things like that).

As I've continued on with my afternoon with this new underlayment of thankfulness in my heart, I'm reminded of one of my favorite quotes:

"Meekness implies a spirit of gratitude as opposed to an attitude of self-sufficiency, an acknowledgment of a great power beyond oneself, a recognition of God..."  

~ Gordon B. Hinckley

I think in the Western world we often mistake meekness for weakness or being a wimp. But when viewed as a spirit of gratitude, meekness is strong and empowering.

This last Sunday, our church choir sang a song called "Consider the Lilies". It's been running through my head ever since they sang it, and I've been enriched by it significantly. The words are powerful:

Consider the lilies of the field
How they grow, how they grow
Consider the birds in the sky,
How they fly, how they fly. 

He clothes the lilies of the field.
He feeds the birds in the sky.
And He will feed those who trust Him,
And guide them with His eye. 

Consider the sheep of his fold,
How they follow where He leads.
Though the path may wind across the mountains,
He knows the meadows where they feed. 

He clothes the lilies of the field.
He feeds the birds in the sky.
And He will feed those who trust Him,
And guide them with His eye. 

Consider the sweet, tender children
Who must suffer on this earth...
The pains of all of them He carried
From the day of His birth. 

He clothes the lilies of the field,
He feeds the lambs in His fold,
And He will heal those who trust Him,
And make their hearts as gold.

I need to be as meek as the lilies, other flowers, the birds in the sky and all the creatures of the earth made by His hand, so I can be guided as they are. Thankfully, Hubby reminded me of that important truth today.

If you'd like to hear the best performance of this song, here it is:

Profusion of pink jasmine and not-so-profound ponderings

Like the hedge of pink jasmine that almost knocks me over with its heady scent when I get into its proximity, my thoughts lately are overpowering, full and somewhat tangled. I hope I'm not the only one that gets this way sometimes.

I would have thought by this time in my life I would not succumb to insecurity. But I do.

Is it just a "chick thing" to constantly battle with ridiculously superficial insecurities like...

"Do I photograph flowers too much? It seems that 'serious photographers' I run into in the world of social networking always apologize when they feature a flower shot. Am I showing my amateur underbelly by constantly taking and posting photos of flowers?"

And thoughts like...

"Am I following proper blog etiquette? Should I respond to every comment in the line of comments? Should I respond privately via email? Does it suffice to simply visit a commenter's blog and enjoy their space? Where is Emily Post when you need her?" [Yes, I realize there's a pun there... and I find it rather amusing that in this day and age we don't have an Emily Post for posting.]

Then...

"Maybe I should turn off commenting all together and save myself these mental gymnastics."

Or this is a "favorite"...

"If my blogging friends ever met me in person they would run the other way wishing they never had. I would be a huge disappointment to them if they ever met me and I'd be exposed as a big fat charlatan. And, heaven forbid, if they saw my house or my garden! Their ideal vision would be shattered because it's just a house in need of more repairs and a garden in need of constant weeding."

My poor Hubby (and sometimes family members) get to actually hear me as I try to work through these thoughts out loud. I feel so sorry for them. Like the profusion of pungent jasmine along the garden fence, I must be a tangle of overwhelming nonsense far too often.

I wish I could say that I was also like the annual-blooming jasmine and my own "insecurity bloom" happened only once a year.

Alas, I haven't figured out how to do that yet. Great! Another thing I can feel insecure about.

Thank you, Mr. Jobs

On January 24, 1984, this happened...

I never saw this unveiling. But only a few months later, my father's employer (one of the first purchasers of the Macintosh) allowed him to bring home one of the first Macs for long-term off-site use. That evening, there was a much smaller unveiling at our house as my siblings and I were introduced to the Macintosh for the first time.

My world changed that day.

At first I wondered where the C:\ was (otherwise called a "C prompt"). I wanted to enter basic DOS commands to make the computer do tricks like the ones I'd played with at school. I was frustrated and thought this "toy" wasn't worth much if I couldn't interact with it and make it loop with some simple BASIC code. This couldn't be a true computer if it didn't have that C:\. My younger siblings were less jaded than I and immediately loved the Mac. I took a few days to embrace it.

I didn't know that I was in a unique position. I was 17 years old--old enough to embrace technology but not so old that it intimidated me. I didn't realize that the little box without the C:\ was going to change my world (and everyone else's too). I was going to be one of only a relatively few of the world's population that straddle the transition between life before the Mac-led PC revolution and after.

I became an early adopter by default. When the first version of Microsoft Word was released (originally for the Mac), I learned it so I could work at temp jobs during my breaks from college. When the first version of Microsoft Excel was released, I did the same. When on one of those temp jobs an employer handed me a box and said, "No one has time to learn this. Can you?" I took it and taught myself the first version of Adobe PageMaker and entered the world of desktop publishing.

I graduated with a two-year degree in Commercial Art having received all my graphic design training without touching a single computer. My fellow students and I were probably one of the last groups to do that. I was learning how to do layout using "old school" techniques with t-squares and waxed paper bits. All the while I was creating with the Mac on the side knowing there was an easier way to do things.

It doesn't seem that long ago.

As I sat here today in front of my beautiful trusty iMac with its gorgeous display that lets me post-process digital photographs with the utmost color accuracy, I reflected on all the ways that Steve Jobs' vision of the Mac and his passion for pushing the limits of technology has touched my life. It was very hard to contain the emotions that welled within me from the gratitude I felt for someone being willing to tenaciously push forward despite multiple setbacks, the odds being stacked against him so many times, and the voices of critics on all sides.

Thank you Steve Jobs for continuing to believe in your passion. Thank you for following that inner drive that pushed you to see what others couldn't. I thank you with tears in my eyes and the fullest heart.

It is because of you, Mr. Jobs, that I can sit here in the comfort of my home studio and be a creative professional today. It is because of that little box without a C:\ that I can do things I couldn't have dreamed of doing back on that day in 1984.

My world changed again today... because my world had to say goodbye to you.

Steve Jobs 1955-2011