Every morning these days I awaken to the scent and scenery of beautiful gardens surrounding my bedroom on three sides. With two wide-open very large windows on opposite walls, fresh air delicately wafts across my room, swooshing gauzy white curtains as it daintily pushes them floating into the room then sucks them back tightly against the window screens as if breathing. The zephyrs drift over my bed, swirling, dancing in the vaulted space.
I sleep in delicious dreaming and awaken to sweet and spicy scents amidst the sounds of birch leaves tapping together in gentle breezes, chirping birds, and scampering squirrels. A Wall Street Journal delivery boy softly opens the front garden gate, tiptoes noiselessly toward the front door, gently plops a paper onto my porch. The neighbor’s quiet scritching of garden tools in the soil assures of beauty on the other side of the fence. All these sounds comfort and soothe me. There is a tranquility in the murmurings of life going on about me. I am not alone. I belong to a world of flora, fauna, and people!
Still, here in my home is solitude, privacy.
Balance. A vigorous life is all about balance.
Out my sparkling north bedroom window is verdant lawn edged with abundantly blooming rhododendrums, peonies, azaleas, various flowering spring bulbs, a pink hydrangea soon to open, and white birches festooned with brand-new supple dark green leaves. Ferns in various hues of green arch and curl under shading eaves, offering a forest quality to the prettiness of the garden. Blue jays and squirrels daily bathe and drink from a dark red birdbath, its puddle of sun-reflecting water invites them, quenching their thirst, washing their wings. Two log rocking chairs on a veranda offer restful shade, a place to peacefully view nature’s gaiety. A little piece of heaven, glorious under a bright blue sky!
Directly below my bedroom’s south window - in my secret potted Italian Garden - one Meyer Lemon and two Cara-Cara orange trees offer intoxicatingly scented blossoms. Bliss! My mother wore orange blossoms in her hair the day she married my father. My father grew one lemon, one tangerine, and one orange tree on the California estate of my childhood. The scents of the sweet-smelling, tiny white flowers in my secret garden bring to mind the parents whose memory blesses my heart every day. Perfume from two nearby jasmine bushes, in earth-toned ceramic pots, joins the aromatic dance. Next to the citrus trees and across from the jasmine twins is an eight feet tall avocado tree started from a pit by my French son-in-law, the son with the green thumb.
From my south window, if I lean in and to the right, I see geraniums, lettuce, zinnias, marjoram, basil, purple flowering chives and thyme, oregano, alyssum, orange California poppies, a Vietnamese fish plant, parsley times two, tiger lilies, a tall Cyprus tree, and cilantro blossoms. A tidy bed of asparagus planted in fertile ground by my daughter, the daughter with the green thumb, joins more savory delights, plus lavender, and a large terra cotta container overflowing with fruitful strawberry plants all thriving in the rich soil of Mother Earth.
A Greek-blue umbrella in the center of a lovely, round, tiled bistro table - a gift from a friend - nestles between two black wrought-iron chairs cushioned with vibrant red and aqua floral cushions.
All of this greets me every morning as I lift the shades from my huge windows.
Calmy settled and dreamy-eyed from a good night’s sleep, I slip a colorful robe around my shoulders and over my arms, untied, its soft fabric flowing against my legs as I stroll down my tiled, sun-lit hall to the patio door. I roll it open with anticipation. Another glorious day greets me! I speak to my plant friends in muted, happy tones, touching their leaves, bending to smell their blossoms. The decorative concrete is pleasantly warm under my bare feet. I amble to the arched garden gate - built masterfully by my beloved husband - open its little black latch, walk through, and am greeted by yet another garden area, one unseen from my bedroom.
Lush green lawn underfoot beckons me to enter further. Before me, abundantly budding and blooming, stand two cheery red cluster-roses, their shiny leaves glistening in the morning sun. Calla lilies, nestled in the corner of our curved gate and tall picket fence, freshly flower amidst tiger lilies just days away from bursting forth their orange-striped blooms. Spread before the green-leaved lilies lies a cozy mass of Sweet William, those lovely, spicy, pink dainties. A pleasant scent from my childhood! Dad planted pinks, as he called them, under my bedroom window when I was a teenager. I used to pick bouquets of them, place them on my bedside table, then enjoy sweet slumber each summer’s night. A bouquet of Sweet William sits on my nightstand today, reminding me of a father who gardened with joy.
Along the exterior of my bedroom wall, in this lush garden, lies a sea of merrily flourishing coral bells on slender stems, tall, waving at me in the gentle breeze. Prolific this year, my bed of coral bells began with a small start gifted to me by Dad. Their vibrant color and intricate form take my breath away this morning. Brightly edging the verdant lawn while complementing our pale green house the flowers cause many a passer-by to pause. Beauty beckons. Along the coral bell garden, a stone path leads to the birch tree garden, the one seen from my north window where this garden tour began.
Yes, I sleep among gardens, beautiful and aromatic, inviting and sweet, secret and shared.
The mind, nourished by gardens, spreads open the deepest chambers of the soul where truth and understanding dwell, and in this accepting state of grace grows a certain and unexplained serenity.
