I’ve spent the morning losing myself at my favourite nursery; roses were in full bloom, lavender was smelling divine and the rosemary was far too perfect to pass up. This, gardening, in one of my indulgences.
I have a fairly large, beautiful balcony, shaded by lushes trees on one side and the lake on the other. It’s private, spacious and dry which has made it one of my favourite rooms of my entire flat. I keep several containers of flowers, bushes, roses and herbs (all in green containers. I like simple, natural things). I have two bird feeders, which, in the birding community has become known as the birdie crackhouse. They are, in fact, singing right now. The finches are particularily happy due to the final absence of a pesky stellar jay and hawk. The babies are still being fed by their mums, which is a simple site so sweet to see.
Tea time is spent outside with good linens (caught on sale from Anthropologie!) and comfy cushions on the teak table and chairs. Evening family time is spent with the kitty outside and us talking with wine. It’s a good life, this balcony one.
This afternoon I was putting in the new flowers I purchased and weeding out old ones. There’s currently dirt all over because I confess to not being the tidiest of gardeners. In fact, I like to get a little violent throwing dirt around and hacking off branches.
For me, this is my happiness. I choose flowers based on what I think is pretty. I don’t know the names or the care they require. I don’t know if I’m doing everything right – all I do is plant, water and pray to sweet baby jesus (although, sometimes I sing softly to the roses. They seem to like this).
All that matters, I think, is that this give me pleasure. It makes me feel connected when I garden or sit outside to watch the sun set on the lake or even just sip tea and listen to the boats go by. Perhaps I’m not the fanciest gardener nor do I have the most hippest home around but, I am content. And, I think, that is enough.