One of the joys of being a dreamer is the tickle of surprise which accompanies the gardens.
I love peonies. I brought the bubble gum pink beauties along with me when we moved here. They were a gift for someone else’s mother, left behind when we acquired a different property. I wouldn’t buy that color on purpose, but I adore them.
Last fall, I planted ten or twelve different peonies around here. I’d bought them from random roadside farm stands, an historical museum’s fundraiser, a yard sale. They’re coming up, some even already forming tight buds. The delight is in seeing their stalks emerging, burgundy and green, in places I had forgotten I’d planted. There is an unbridled joy in the anticipation of their blooming. I have no idea their colors or varieties and I don’t care.
I will admit thinking that life would probably be easier if I were a careful gardener–someone who planned, took notes, gave consideration to design. By the time I get to the end of planting two or three rows with a few varieties, I’ve forgotten which will be turnips and which will be beets.
I think my haphazard approach, though, is some kind of gift I unconsciously give to myself. I love surprises. I love the garden as a celebration of abundance. I love the pull into presence as I stop to watch a bee on a dandelion. So, as these peonies unfold, I will bask in the thrill of discovery. Heart open. Heart grateful.
P.S. How did a year go by between postings here? It’s been a blur of travel, parenting, homesteading, entrepreneurship, day job and dreams. Always dreams.