Happy to have a home to go home to, no matter what it looks like, that’s the message I’m getting from this little bird, being grateful for what we have.
Every spring, for years and years, this dedicated vireo mom builds and rebuilds her home in my garden. If I count them all up, I’ve been grandma to approximately one hundred babies.
As you can see, her home looks a bit shabby. It really needs to be repainted and I attempted to fix the bottom with string because it was starting to fall apart. I’m not much of a handyman (woman) but it’s OK for now.
This is one of my absolute favorite Bob Marley tunes, check out the video below.
“Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cos every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
You know how sometimes you hear a song that’s the perfect song for how you’re feeling, and whether it’s a coincidence or a sign or a message, you feel its uplifting energy? That’s this one.
This is my mantra for today: “Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cos every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
And then I took my camera outside to see what beauty nature could inspire me to feel gratitude and peace and this lovely little brown bird followed me around for a while.
This one’s a hardy garden rose that does well in drought conditions.
Cistus is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, of which there are about twenty varieties.
It’s a perennial shrub found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands; they do really well in my SoCal garden.
I’ve had really good success propagating them, too. Here’s how I do it:
Snip 6-inch cuttings off stems that have not yet flowered.
Remove lower pairs of leaves, keeping only the topmost one or two pairs at the crest.
Dipping the cuttings in powdered rooting hormones spurs root growth.
Perfect for a hot summer garden with no rain in sight.
I’ve been posting a lot about the beautiful flowers in my garden because I know how short lived it al is and I want to enjoy it while I can…soon the hot sun and blistering Santa Ana winds will dry up all the lush blooms. We had so much rain this season that it really looks like a floral fairyland at Casa de Enchanted Seashells.
Another day, another rose, a very red one, not yet open.
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
O my luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June; O my luve’s like the melodie That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun: O I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile.
And almost completely gone but still drunk with a dancer’s graceful elegance:
I love not hearing cars, sirens, air compressors, grinders, belt sanders, and the cacophony of other human discord.
What I most love hearing at night is the song of a coyote, the hoot of a Great-Horned Owl, and listening to my thoughts.
Since there’s been less human activity since the GREAT PANDEMIC OF 2020, I’ve come to enjoy the sounds of silence in my neighborhood.
Before I go to bed, I sit outside in total darkness on the deck. I look up at the sky and think about a poem I wrote in college about Orion; I guess I’ve always been drawn to the night.
This week, there were Lyrid meteor showers and even fireballs, but I missed them all. Still, it’s comforting knowing that they happened, even if I didn’t get to personally witness any.
Lately, there’s a new and beautiful addition to the songdogs and the owls.
It’s one of the only birds that sings at night in my area, the Northern Mockingbird.
The northern mockingbird is a world-famous singer, considered finer even than the famous nightingale of Europe.
The male sings a medley of songs belonging to other birds, repeating each phrase several times before moving on to the next.
Most songbirds learn all the songs they’ll ever sing before they’re a year old.
He learns the songs of other birds and incorporates them into his own songs. Mockingbirds also sometimes “sing” the sounds of people whistling, frogs croaking, and doorbells ringing.
Although all adult male mockingbirds sing during the day, only a bachelor sings at night.
Their night music is a beautiful love song. As soon as the mockingbird finds a mate, he stops singing at night. And that’s how we’ll know.
And then I started thinking about other types of beautiful music, like A little Night Music by Mozart (Eine Kleine Nachtmusik), Eine kleine Nachtmusik (Serenade No. 13 for strings in G major), K. 525, is a 1787 composition for a chamber ensemble by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The German title means “a little serenade,” though it is often rendered more literally but less accurately as “a little night music.” The work is written for an ensemble of two violins, viola, and cello with optional double bass, but is often performed by string orchestras.
And finally, some Rumi:
Close the door of words that the window of your heart may open. To see what cannot be seen turn your eyes inward and listen, in silence.
It’s been five long years since I’ve been lucky enough to be chosen by a hummingbird as a sanctuary site to build her nest on one of my windchimes.
The last time it was built on hummingbird chimes (very witty, mama hummy, very witty) and this time it’s butterfly chimes, but in the same exact location right outside the kitchen window.
Mama works pretty much around the clock bringing feathers and spider webs and other soft little bits and pieces glued together with her own birdy poop.
I’ll update as the nest grows and mom lays her two precious eggs:
All the rain we had in SoCal a couple weeks ago caused my roses to grow like crazy.
Planted at least six feet apart in order to comply with all social distancing orders, here’s a couple of little bouquets displayed in a Waterford crystal sugar and creamer, just because…
…and my magical secret garden with a working windmill…
…as well as an afternoon visit for snacks from Mr. and Mrs. Bunny, also complying with social distancing directives!
After our week-long rainstorm, it was sunny and warm; a perfect time to pick weeds and do some heavy lifting in the garden.
Picture this: Our backyard can be divided into threes. There’s the level part with a lawn, and then there are twenty-eight steps that lead to the first hill, with more winding steps that ascend to the summit.
I took a break, eating a tangerine while I sat at the top of the mid-steps. From this vantage point, I could survey the entire level of the garden below. Birds were singing, butterflies were fluttering around in the soft breeze, and my eye caught the progression of something floating down from the palm trees in the neighbor’s yard to land on my lawn.
What was it?
I ran down and found a soft and beautiful hawk feather. It almost seemed to glow in the early morning light.
What a joyous treasure, don’t you think?
According to Native Americans, a feather from a hawk symbolizes guardianship, strength, and far-sightedness. Another meaning : You are being asked to listen to the advice that friends and family are giving you. The messages you are receiving about the decision you must make is correct and only comes from love. Allow yourself to let go of the control and surrender. I like this one, too: Your life is taking a turn that will lead you on the path to happiness, joy, success, and love.
Hmmm, that certainly gives me something to think about, you know?
The opposite of rain is sun. It rained all week here in SoCal, heavily at times. We received an official total of 6.20 inches of rain. That’s a LOT of rain for a mostly desert climate.
At times, it seemed as if it would never end. That’s the way a lot of things feel. Sometimes, you can endure so much pain and sadness that it seems as if it will never go away, that you’ll never be happy again.
I think it’s like going through a tunnel. When you enter, the light becomes dark and you are so immersed in it that everywhere you look, everywhere you turn–is darkness. It’s so dark you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. Every once in a while, someone might light a candle and you feel a momentary sharp stabbing pain to remind you of what it used to be like, but then the flame’s snuffed out and you’re thrust back into complete and total darkness. Which way is the exit? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel or will I simply stay here in limbo, in pitch-black inky hopeless melancholy? What’s the point of anything?
That was a heavy detour; my mind devolved and digressed and rambled through a rabbit hole of despondency. So there’s that familiar dark night of the soul too, that black spiraling tunnel of anguish.
Maybe I hit replay too many times on Kesha’s Praying. (see link below).
All I really set out to do with this post was share some pics of how much rain we had and how flooded my gardens were, in contrast to one day later, when we enjoyed a shiny sunny blue sky.
When author Alex Banayan interviewed Maya Angelou, it is alleged that she told him to write this sentence on his notepad and to never forget it. “Every storm runs out of rain.”
I hope so. I really do.
Here ya go:
Thursday’s rain…my arroyo seco, dry river bed, wasn’t so dry anymore!
