I'm closing out the day in just about the most perfect way I can, sitting outside in the dark, watching two black cats pounce across the lawn in leaps, trying to kill bugs. It's delightfully cool outside, although I had to switch chairs as a late night rain shower started up, and I had to protect my laptop from the sprinkles. My fairy garden is as pretty as we could make it in the time we had, and it is really lovely. I have zones for flowers, vegetables, hot tubbing, patio sitting, and fire watching. I have lights all throughout it to show me boundaries and give me targets on which to rest my vision in the dark. The fence is solid, and the well-behaved felines stay inside of it. It's almost perfect. But not quite. The person who built it all walked away from it, and that's enough to make it bittersweet. It has been a full week now, and I'm feeling a few chips in the armor that got me through up until now. The next five to forty years of my life are looming in front of me, and I just don't see them playing out like I wanted. I don't have a new plan yet. I don't know how to want one yet.
At least the weather was perfect. It was overcast nearly all day, and never climbed out of the mid-80s. It rained off and on, and I took that as my signal that it was right for me to go out and weed the plantain out of the Unless garden. Most people think clear, sunny days are gardening weather, but for me it's the exact opposite. Give me gray skies and I'm a happy girl. I remember writing in that very first summer of the blog how I could have been happy living someplace with a climate like Seattle's or London's, and it's still true. I just didn't want the big cities that were attached to those places. The gloomier it is around here, the more I want to be outside, walking through the zones of my Park, admiring the progress of the growing things.
I had been closely watching the three day lilies I planted just outside the vegetable garden fence. They were varieties I'd never heard of before (unlike the plethora of Stella d'Oros we planted up front), like Promise Me, Bela Lugosi, and Pandora. The last one I got because that was once a nickname of mine. So far, only the Bela Lugosi has sent up a flower stalk, and early this morning, it finally opened. I had checked right before bed, and it looked like the Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors, but this morning it was a dark velvet maroon like I've only dreamed about. It was a perfect flower. I'm so glad I grabbed this one, and I look forward to future summers as it grows and fills that side of the fence with dozens of richly colored flowers. Maybe Promise Me and Pandora will bloom along side it next year.
A friend of mine convinced me to go to her favorite Denver plant nursery (and you know I took SO much convincing...). I have made another impulsive purchase in my quest to find a white rose. So far I've failed three times to come home with one, even though we have bought two that were supposed to be white. Once again, I have a plant that was the last of its variety, with a sign on it that claims it was white (this time it's Sugar Moon). There are tiny little buds just starting to form, so I have no proof that it is the rose its label claims to be. This is how I ended up with the blush pink one next to the flagstone patio. In a month or so, I will know what it is. Either I have finally succeeded after trying since February to find the right one, or it will be another chapter in my hunt for the perfect white rose. Whichever way is fine by me. Perfection isn't the result. Perfection is paying attention and enjoying the journey.
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