We are midway through the summer, and there are two approaches to this time of year. Some people decide that they are “done” with their garden. They enjoy what they planted in May and early June, but they don’t want to place anything else in the ground for the rest of the summer. They might even be finished with their gardening until the fall cleanup.

Others are appreciating what was put in place early in the year, but they are actively weeding, deadheading, and even planting, in anticipation of months of growth or future gardens. Shrubs and perennials that are put into the ground now will be there next year too after all.

There is no one right way, of course. We must all tailor our landscapes to suit our temperament, desires, climate, and overall schedules.

But I think that being willing to check in and plant periodically, no matter which of life’s arenas are being cultivated, is probably a good thing. If my mind was made up that July 18^th is too late to add to the garden, I won’t enjoy those perennials or shrubs next year. Similarly, if I decide that “publishers are no longer interested in gardening books”, and no longer pursue the proposals I’ve started, you can be sure that none of these ideas will grow.

If you’ve decided that it’s too late to take up painting, go to medical school, or learn how to whistle…well, you’ll never know, will you?

That’s not to say that I must put more perennials in the ground and submit book proposals to editors, or you have to pursue painting, medicine or whistling. What I’m getting at here is that we shouldn’t be limited by a self-imposed decision that it’s too late in a season, and that we should be “done” cultivating.

I happen to think that there is always cultivation to be done. In our veggie garden, we've been weeding, harvesting and planting new crops of beans, lettuce and chard. In the flower gardens I'm deadheading, and yes, planting. I want to take this same approach in my life as well. I want to continue to cultivate, plant and edit without thinking that it's too late in a season, or that something is too difficult to grow.

As I walked around the gardens with the camera today, my attention was caught by smaller interactions. I noticed how the variegated foliage of a variegated Persicaria echoes the blue and white of the Forever-and-Ever Peppermint Hydrangea, and the perfect way the red tassel flower (Emilia coccinea ‘Scarlet Magic’) helps the ‘Marguerite’ sweet potato vine and the Ageratum ‘Blue Horizon’ come alive.

I think of the small, spontaneous interactions between strangers that make us laugh with delight, or the little kindnesses that can unexpectedly brighten our day. Some of these can be planned, of course…we might decide to take a bouquet of flowers into a store where we’ve had a good experience, or leave a note designed to make someone else feel good. Other times these moments of satisfaction or amusement come serendipitously, and are all the more enchanting because of the unplanned nature of it all.

Open eyes, minds and hearts lead to better appreciation and cultivation of the colorful human interactions that animate our lives.

My blogging friend John, over at John and Liza’s Garden, has recently had an episode with his heart. He says he needs to “slow down” and let the younger generation do the heavy work.

That’s fine, but I encouraged him to get out in the garden and savor what is there, and what he can do. We don’t have to push so much, perhaps, but doing what we’re able to accomplish, and doing that with complete focus and appreciation, is very satisfying and healing.

When we can focus on truly being present in the landscape, we realize that the garden, just as it is this moment, is very life affirming.  Although as I get ready for the tour next week, and am scrambling to get things done, I do have to remind myself again and again to slow down and drink it all in already!

We can use anything as a wake up call to pay attention, and everything as an occasion to feel grateful for life.

It’s really too bad that we can’t just float over our gardens or lives once in awhile and take in the view from above. I get a taste of this from the second floor balcony, where I can appreciate that the landscape looks completely different from this perspective.

If we could hover over our lives and see the long view, past, present and future, the distance and perception we’d get would be invaluable. When we’re in the thick of things we get caught up in the minutiae and current emotion that it’s hard to have any sort of broad outlook.

When my mind takes me down well-worn paths of dissatisfactions, past grievances or old arguments, I remind myself to take a breath already and pull myself upward. Seen from above, these minor complaints look small and petty…in the noise level, as the saying goes.

From above, I don’t see the small weeds, leaf spots and other imperfections in the garden. I can view with satisfaction the characters of each plant, colors of flowers and the overall arrangement of textures and forms. From above, I am filled with love for the harmony of it all.

Is this how God views us and our lives? I think that Julie Gold’s song, From A Distance, is about just this. Viewed from a higher perspective, we can see the landscape of life as precious and beautiful.

Climb a tree, get up on the roof, take a deep breath and pull back from how our minds chatter: find the view from above.

From the second floor, the small imperfections of the garden disappear, and I'm able to marvel at the flow of the space and vitality of the plants.

I’m planting like crazy this year: perennials, shrubs, groundcovers and annuals. Yummy, healthy plants go into the soil that I’ve loosened and amended, and I water them in. I place them in the ground with great hope and optimism… yet I know that some of them will die.

Even if a plant doesn’t out and out croak, it might be weak and spindly, or splay open in an ugly display of stems on dirt. Sometimes we can figure out what went wrong, but frequently the source of the problem remains a mystery. I don’t know about you, but I have an extensive list of plant names filed in the category, “Dead.”

It’s an interesting experience to cultivate things you know might not grow. I’ve had long experience with this as an artist and writer. If I had the money I have spent on the postage used to mail out proposals that haven’t gone anywhere, I’d have a small retirement fund.

Recently I had an encounter with a person who two weeks ago I would have sworn could have become a friend. She and I are much alike, with similar passions and abilities. In a matter of one week, things have turned around and I am suddenly unable to be myself around her. This is a relationship that may not develop further.

Sometimes the source of the problem remains a mystery. Not everything grows, but if we plant as much as possible, a good deal will thrive.

Although not everything thrives, our hearts are lifted when things do grow well. I love this combination of the Colette climbing rose and the Belgica honeysuckle. (Lonicera periclymenum 'Belgica'). Thankfully, these have both done well.

Writing this blog has given me the opportunity to begin see the common threads that run from the garden and through all other aspects of life. Everything is connected to everything else.

This evening I walked around the garden with my camera, and thought about the peonies. I’ve recently helped several people at the garden center who want materials to stake the heavy peony flowers. Although I occasionally support mine, in general I don’t have the time or inclination.

In my early days of gardening I never staked peonies, I remind myself. I never watered or fertilized them at this time, so perhaps that helped the stalks to be stronger. I look out on the lakeside perennial bed and see that in general these huge and beautiful flowers are held upright. Those flowers that do bend to the ground are cut and brought indoors.

Support was on my mind today because I spent a day providing it for others, and asking for it myself.

Sometimes we are able to stand up like strong peony stems, and other times we bend from trying to hold up too much weight. Hopefully we can use that bending to create beautiful bouquets.

A couple of the peony stems in this garden have bent to the ground, but for the most part they are standing upright and strong.

Tomorrow is June 1^st. Every year at this time I remember my friend Cia telling me that someone she knew hated June because “it’s so green.” Although I don’t dislike June (too green?)  I agree that this month is an in-your-face, all-out-growth time of year.

I think that the challenge is to take it all in. Not only is the foliage green and lush, but the peonies are over-the-top fragrant and the poppies are practically screaming “Let’s put on lipstick and go out!” In June life is so exuberant and grand that it’s hard to properly absorb and appreciate it.

It’s not wonder that one of the well known tunes from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical Carousel is “June is Bustin’ Out All Over.” It absolutely is.

How can we best use and be grateful for this most abundant month? For me, it’s a matter of first stopping my high-speed planting to value what is here. But beyond the garden, June is a reminder to notice all of the areas of growth and abundance in our lives.

For family, work, friends, faith, spirit, gardens, pets, challenges and opportunities for growth, I am thankful. Life is bustin’ out all over, and is so very green.

Every day something new bursts into flower. The 'Belgica' honeysuckle, 'Collette' climbing rose, and the Siberian Iris... and more. I take a deep breath of appreciation and just try to take it all in.

When we moved to Poison Ivy Acres, one of the items on my wish list was a cutting garden. Fortunately, at the top of the property there was the perfect location for annuals and perennials intended solely for bouquets.

We can, of course, cut flowers from all places on our properties, but there is something about having a designated cutting garden that appeals.

A garden devoted to cut flowers doesn’t have to look good through the entire season. We don’t have to balance foliage color and texture, or think about four seasons of interest. A cutting garden only has to produce flowers and foliage for the vase.

Beyond not being bound by the usual constraints of garden design, however, cutting gardens speak to other aspects of life. We feel enormously grateful to be able to devote a section of the landscape to lovely bouquets; unlike much of the rest of the world, we don’t have to dedicate our entire surroundings to raising food for the table.

Cutting gardens also speak to the significance of beauty in our lives. We can celebrate the importance of bringing Nature’s splendor into our environments. Flowers lift our spirits and speak to our souls.

What other places do we cultivate in our lives that are devoted solely to such pleasures? Joining a poetry group, or regularly visiting a museum, might qualify. Even the wine tasting group I belong to fits, I think. When we put effort into something purely for the pleasure and beauty it produces, we’re nurturing a “cutting garden.”

Last year I planted three peonies in the cutting garden, and today I started picking. The big balls of petals in the bottom part of this photo are 'Whopper', and they are over the top in appearance and fragrance.

This is how the zinnias in the cutting garden looked last year, as seen on a foggy day.

One of the reasons we love the spring is that it is the absolute embodiment of hope. In this season we trust that every seed we plant will sprout and thrive. We expect our gardens to be glorious and we look forward to surroundings that are abundant with growth and blooms.

Why shouldn’t we be hopeful and optimistic? Whether it’s the beginning of the growing season or any point in the year, it’s possible to feel positive even as we realize that work and uncertainty lie ahead. That same amount of effort and ambiguity would be there if we approached the future with pessimism and despair, so why not choose to walk with hope instead?

We are blessed to experience spring, the season of rebirth and faith. We are challenged, at the same time, to walk forward knowing that we have a hand in cultivating these expectations. Everything in our gardens and lives may be primed to grow, but our continual attention may determine the ultimate outcome.

As I go through the weekend, I’ll be asking each sign of hope and faith to nourish me, and remind me of my responsibility for what I wish to grow.

Planting pea seeds is the ultimate expression of hope and faith. We put them in the ground when the air is still raw and the ground bare. The slightest amount of warmth that the sun provides triggers their growth. The peas are up! The growing season has begun.

Today I was blessed to be able to sit on my deck with my laptop, and write this while listening to the birds singing their spring songs. The sound of the morning doves cooing takes me back to my childhood in Muncie, Indiana, and the chickadees chirps remind me of living in New York’s Hudson Valley where I would garden while the kids rode bikes and big wheels.

These touchstones – touchsounds? – mingle with the present: the cool breeze against my skin, the view of the pussy willow in full flower on the edge of our property, and the scent of Pieris in full bloom. I’m not the first to say that spring is downright intoxicating.

As I sit on the deck typing this, I keep setting the laptop aside to pick up the camera, trying to catch the magic in an image. The pictures can’t do justice to the garden, partly because they don’t capture those birdcalls, breezes and fragrances. They also fall short because the manifestations of spring are actually pretty darn small. A group of three daffodils warms my heart to no end, but looks downright puny in a photograph.

I’m thinking that renewal in our lives is often as incremental as the changes in our spring gardens. Oh sure, sometimes people make big leaps by quitting smoking cold turkey, or deciding that from this day on they are not sprinkling the “f word” into every sentence. But most of the time our growth is more gradual, coming in fits and starts.

I know that in areas such as work, spirituality, relationships or passions (gardening?) our development may be erratic, with no guarantees. Daily life often unfolds in a process similar to spring: small bursts of color and progress that may get lost when we look at the wide view, but all fundamentally important to our overall growth.

Sitting on the deck and looking at this landscape, the pussywillows and emerging perennials seem in-my-face-vibrant, but in the picture? Not so much.