October is here.  Mother nature is busy painting the leaves brilliant colors.  The birds have flown south taking the hot air with them.  The sun has become stingier and stingier with its light.  Fog threatens the mornings.  And the eight-legged fiends have invaded every corner of my garden.

Every. Damn. Corner.  And my doorways.  The side mirrors of my car.  And a few completely psychotic ones have even invaded my home.  Those house invaders were met swiftly with my Swiffer.  Well, swiftly after gathering my courage and expelling many profanities. 

So how do I even leave my home during these dark times, one might ask? 

Well…I use my wand, of course!  And perhaps a bit of (dark) magic.

Stationed at every door is a “spider wand.”  A weapon used to protect, relocate, and (if necessary)…slay.

The spiders are ginormous this time of year.  Beefy, armored, and sinuous.  Webs are everywhere.  They have the power to turn even the most docile person into a crazed ninja.  With no remorse for mini heart attacks and thrown out backs.  None.

So I leave my house armed with my wand at all times now.  I wave the wand up down, left and right as I venture out.  Like a really dramatic Catholic.  I think my neighbors are used to this somewhat unusual behavior by now. 

For the most part, my magic is mostly exploratory and defensive in nature. But if I must, I wave the wand in circles to wrap the beasties in their own webs and toss them to the ground.  It is there that they meet the killing curse of the bottom of my garden Crocs.  It is perhaps a bit of controversial magic, but others might call it the circle of life. 

So to you, Aragog, AVADA KEDAVRA!

It’s a few days past vernal equinox.  Still cold, rainy, and ever-gray in the Pacific Northwest.  My rain chain has been overwhelmed for the past couple hours.  Gloomy, but I know better days are to come.  

In fact, there are another two hours left of daylight outside.  I am inside looking out as I have been in the previous days of winter.  Fireplace on and watching the tree limbs outside dance the wind song.  Everything is waking up including that space inside me.  That place that comes alive when the sun shines down and warms my face.  

I felt it yesterday when the rain gave way to partially sunny skies.  I transplanted a bush and planted a new (to me) Japanese Maple.  And I noted all the signs of spring.  The buds on branches, the tulip foliage several inches above the soil, multi-purpled crocuses opening to the sky, and the fruit loop smelling flowers emerging from my Daphne with its variegated leaves.  White and purple Vinca flowering, “hello.” It’s a spark.  And I am hopeful.  

I am glad to be done with winter.  I hope it does not make a surprise return and snuff out that spark of spring.  I’ll be glad when winter is in the far distance of my garden’s rear view mirror.  I suppose it is not all that bad though and one must try to make the best of it.

Winter is a time to become well acquainted with the intricate skeletal structures of one’s garden.  It’s one of those “winter interest” type of things.  Branches twisting and reaching and intertwining at times.  Something you can’t observe when the branches are clothed with leaves.  Some, like my coral bark maple and red twig dogwood, have beautiful red color that brightly contrasts the gray and especially snow. 

Others, like my evergreen rhododendrons, lend their green colored leaves year round. A welcomed divergence from the dark monochrome days.  I should also give credit to the miniature, metallic purple beads of my beauty berry.  Stunning.  And of course, there are the evergreen trees that , during a good storm, litter the ground with green garden bits like tourists throwing beads on Bourbon Street during Mardis Gras.  

Only it doesn’t feel like a party in winter here.  It feels like a restless slumber.  Dreaming of flowers and sun and warmth only to awaken to more frost and darkness day after day.  However, winter does have a flower in its cap.  The Hellebore.

For me, the Hellebore is the bridge that takes one from winter sadness safely across the frozen pond into rejuvenating spring.  So many varieties of late winter blooming Hellebores exist to brighten the shady parts of the garden!  Some have flowers (sepals really) that face downward and others greet you face on.  A good many colors too though I’d say most are subdued.  The real color show still belongs to summer and other plant varieties.  

I don’t need a gopher to tell me when spring is coming.  I let the Hellebores whisper to me instead.  They give a much needed respite from drab of the winter months and make them not so hellebore-ing after all.    

It’s the Sunday before Thanksgiving and I’ve mostly been on the couch today.  Fireplace on, candles lit, cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies on the TV, and nursing a cold.  All while trying to keep the SAD away.  Seasonal Affective Disorder is a real thing in Western Washington.  Short days filled with chilly air and almost endless rain can wear on anyone.  The climate of things is depressing for sure.

Lucky for me, I won’t be camped inside all winter this year.  My back deck was given a hat at the end of the summer.  My good friend and her husband spent long hours helping me design and build a deck cover.  It’s finished and perfect and will provide a harbor in the many tempests to come.  

I feel like an outdoor space is a must for mental health.  I am feeling very fortunate to be able to step out my back door into my little sanctuary.  And so I do just that.  Being able to do this in any weather now is quite a luxury! 

My little wooden bistro table sits beneath the new cover atop a bright blue rug.  I hung an outdoor chandelier from the new rafters above.  I wrap myself in a blanket and take a seat at the table.  I strike a match to ignite a tea light candle.  I place it inside a cast iron owl.  It illuminates the owl’s belly.  It reminds me of someone special to me who has since passed.  

I listen to the rain beat different rhythms above my head.  It reminds me of the construction weekends spent listening to the Highway Men and other country legends.  And laughs.  I take deep breaths of fresh air.  Sometimes it will smell a little like the sea or, thankfully fewer times, a lot like cows.  Tonight it smells a bit salty and slightly of chimney smoke.

I feel safe underneath the drumming rain.  It’s too late in the day now for the  hum and chirps of the birds.  I would have liked for them to round out the band, but I can’t control everything.  I’ve bested Mother Nature for now anyway.  When she decides to throw wind and tree branches at me again, I’ll need to stay inside once again.

The sun is gone now. I think of the darkness beyond the lights brightening my deck.  It is dark and cold now and it is still not solstice yet.  More darkness is to come and for quite some time ahead still.  And then I remember the poet Dylan Thomas.  And I think, “Do not go gentle into that good Night.”  And to also “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”  For in the words of the ever-so-wise Albus Dumbledore, “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

I can outlast the sun now while being sheltered from the rain. So until the long days of sun return, I’ll keep the sanctuary lights on, bundle up, and continue to make my outdoor space a harbor in the tempest.  

I was driving last week to my gym.  Sometimes it takes 12 minutes and sometimes 20.  The road has heavier traffic and Amazon is partly to blame.  Not the Amazon of South America, but the one with a newish warehouse on the same road that offers same-day shipping on some products.  It’s a love/hate relationship.

It was a slower than usual day on that road.  One where I had time to look at the surrounding buildings and fields.  A mix.  One large field in particular was pure gold.  Millions and millions of Dandelions.  Often another love/hate relationship.     

For someone in pursuit of a pristine, carpet-like, green lawn, that would be a nightmare.  Weeds.  Weeds that would surely go to seed and spread like wildfire after lightening in a summer storm.  

Weeds.  A very large category and one that is mainly determined by beauty and not by substance.  What is a weed?  Wikipedia tells me it is a “plant considered undesirable in a particular situation.”  Undesirable.  What does that mean?  It means unpleasant in general.

Unpleasant.  Sometimes this is learned through first hand experience.  And sometimes it is taught.  The Dandelion is certainly not unpleasant to hungry bees.  The roots can be helpful in natural medicine as well.

As I was stopped in my vehicle, I looked to my left at the field of gold.  All those Dandelions.  My HOA does not permit them.  I use my weed whacker at home to keep them in check.  But as I looked longer and marveled at the blanket of yellow, I remembered.

I used to love them.  Yellow was my first favorite color.  I’ve had many, but yellow was my first.  And I could pluck them and trace them along items to spread the color I loved.  They were flowers to me when I was young and innocent and loved most things.  Yellow flowers that smiled with the sun.

Those same flowers would turn to white puff balls.  As an adult, when I had a large lawn, I would cringe at those.  They meant more and more weeds to deal with.  I have a small lawn now.  Not big enough for a gas mower even.  But I still have the Dandelions.  And I now remember when they were not weeds at all.

They were  once wishes that could come true.  I loved plucking them as a small girl.  Holding them up to my face.  Closing my eyes.  Thinking of a wish.  Sucking in my breath and holding it.  And then blowing the white puff ball into the universe to spread my wish and hope that it would come true.   

I think about how fragile some plants are.  They need this soil and that light and this amount of water and Goldilocks weather.  And how expensively replaceable those plants are.  And then my little Dandelion who is fierce in all weather and will grow from a crack in concrete.  The same Dandelion that will keep growing back unless the very root of it is eliminated.  Strong.  And then I think what would I like to be?  

Would I like to be a plant grown in a nursery?  Beautiful from someone else’s care or would I like to be a hardy Dandelion that grows freely from concrete cracks and raises my sunshine face to the sky and eventually entertain wishes for those who need them?

I think I choose the Dandelion.  And I feel like I am lucky enough to have a sea of them as friends as well.  

Two days past Winter Solstice. It’s not raining and there is more blue sky than gray today. The sun is already making its decent. It casts its last rays onto the tops of the cedars outside my window turning their green branches a bright chartreuse in just a few spots.

The dark with the light.  It’s life.  It’s always this way.  Two days out of the year we have equal dark and light.  Otherwise it’s more of one or the other.  The cedars are more deep green or more chartreuse.  But always a bit of both.  

For those having a hard time on this Christmas Eve Eve, remember that the lighter days are coming. 

It’s been over a year since the gardens of Barcelona sweetened my nose and the hot air sweated my back.  And I have procrastinated this last part of Gaudí’s Garden.  At least the last grand piece my travel companion and I have experienced.  I think it’s because I did not want the adventure to be over.  If I wrote it…or at least post it to the world, then it would be over.  And I didn’t want that.

But now…on the night a new adventure plan has been hatched, it seems the right time to conclude the garden adventures that were had in Barcelona, Spain.  And adventure cannot be over if a new one is beginning, no?

On our last day in Barcelona, we took the hop on/hop off bus to rest our beat feet. We had originally wanted to tour Casa Batlló, but fate had another stop in store for us. We hopped off the bus to find Casa Milà instead.

This was another Gaudí design inspired by nature.  The boney shell of the building’s exterior in the Eixample part of Barcelona beckoned the few tourists who braved the Covid risks at the time.  We purchased tickets to the rooftop, which was a short elevator ride to our first stop on the Casa Milà tour.

A 360 degree view of the city awaited us. Blue sky overhead. A few wispy clouds interrupting. If Mary Poppins was with us, we could have climbed them like stairs and explored the many rooftops within our gazes. Giant, guardian warriors of the rooftops stretched into the sky, protecting us. But not from the heat. The sun beat into our skin and coaxed the sweat out without much resistance.

After exploring all corners of the rooftop, and wishing we had done the nighttime tour, we stepped back into the building on the attic level. From the heat of the sun and into the belly of the whale.

It was cool inside.  Brick arches mimicking the interior of a whale.  A cool relief from the Barcelona sun.  We walked slowly.  There were models of the building to be viewed.  Handmade furniture and other items that related to nature to be admired and read about on adjacent plaques.  Pictures were taken.  But mostly the coolness of the space was enjoyed.  

The decent was next.  Rooms on a few floors below were open to walk through.  We stepped back in time to the affluent homes on display with their antiques for us to peruse.  Opulent furniture and servant quarters and chandeliers.  Modern (ish) bathrooms and lavish decorations.  The main features though were beauty and function.  Gaudí preferred natural light.

Some people actually live there. In that very building and they endure us tourists in the part of their building that is open to the public. All public and private rooms seems to face inward in a circular void that opens to the sky. Natural light.

Light within.  Light throughout.  Light above.  Nature and light that is Gaudí.  That is Barcelona.

It has been a hot minute since my last blog.  I’ve been pretty happy.  And I’ve had many things in between that I’ve thought of writing about, but just haven’t spent the time.  But today…with one more Covid Quarantine day ahead of me, I have all the time in the world.  The time  to think and to strike those thoughts via keyboard into the infinite web universe… webverse?

My fake tree has been erected once again to stand in the bay window of my home. Only I put an extra string of multi-colored lights onto its white lighted frame. That’s me. I’m a color girl. And I know that about myself. And my hallmark Snoopy and Woodstock ornament is alive again thanks to the color strand. It lends its light bulb sockets to power Snoopy’s dog house into sleigh action. And that makes me smile despite my time in time out.

I’m not a time out kinda gal.  The last time I remember being in time out, I was probably 4 or 5.  It was after convincing the kids attending my Mom’s daycare to play “hair barber.”  I was the “barber” by the way.  I have no regrets.

Perhaps tomorrow I will venture outside and see what plants in my garden need a haircut. Winter is a good time.  I suppose there are a few more days until winter, but I feel it is here already.  It’s snowed already even.  

The end of the year is closing in.  This is the calm before the storm for me.  The few breaths before I lose myself in work for the first two months of the year.  And I am already looking forward to spring.  

The truth is…I can’t remember which bulbs are planted where and I’m hoping I planted some early blooming flowers.  I could use some snowdrops right now.

There is still light in the sky. My eyes still register my surroundings without the aid of streetlights or a flashlight. It’s the magical in between. It’s no longer day and it’s not quite night. I feel safe here. If there was a body of water nearby it would also be time it glows. The birds make their last calls and I eventually retreat inside to escape the chill.

Soon the night will be warm as well.  I will frequent my outdoor fire pit and wait for the stars to greet me.  But tonight is only the first day of summer.

Solstice.

Goodbye to all the promise that Spring brings and hello to the reality the heat of summer brings.  I hope it will prove fruitful.  Perhaps I’ll long for the rain again soon, but for now, I eagerly await summer blooming plants and jacket free evenings long after the sun sets.  Paddling past blooming lily pads and eating berries plucked from native bushes.  

Summer is here.

And may it be a magical summer for us all.