Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Wishful Thinking....

The little chicken peck kisses of late winter blooms are sweet but I miss the passion and heat of summer. I love the vitality and expressiveness of a field of wildflowers or a border packed with colorful beauties. If summer was a love song, it wouldn't be a ballad. There'd be no sappy, angst filled lyrics or unrequited love.


There would be the zip of a swing tune and the rhythm of reggae  followed by


a hip swaying, shoulder shaking, booty grooving


beat that fills you with joy.
 It would be a happy, smiley "Hey, let's dance!" song


that leaves your legs tingly, your cheeks flushed, and
 your heart pounding.


If it were a kiss, it wouldn't be a chicken peck!

Friday, February 12, 2016

Dear Lorna Lovey,

Yo Lorna,
     I just, like, moved next door to this really hot chick. She smells like flowers and her hair shines in the sunlight, Venus and Aphrodite rolled into one. ( I seen that in a book and it sounded smart.) She's in her garden all da time  and I really wanna ask her out but, like, I'm really shy. Don't tell no one. I need yo advice.

Signed,
Ain't Got Nobody


Dear Lorna, 
     A weird guy moved in next door and spends his free time in the shrubbery spying on me. I thought this was pretty creepy so I went over and asked him what he was doing. I was armed with a shovel in case I had to take him down. He saw me coming and jumped straight up like a dang squirrel, getting his head caught in the branches. I figured he had that coming so I left him there. Jerk.

Signed, 
Irritated


Yo Lorna, 
     Ah man, things took a real bad turn. I was trying to be all sly by hiding in the bushes while she was in the garden but she saw me! She started coming over and I freaked out. I wanted to be all friendly and stuff and say something really cool like, "Hey baby. Nice tool." but I got my head all tangled in the branches and all that come out my mouth was " Waaayy aby ice drool." She ain't ever gonna go out with me. I really need yo help.

Signed, 
Still Ain't Got Nobody


Dear Lorna, 
     Ok, remember when I told you about my weird neighbor? I felt bad about leaving him in the shrubs so I went back out, still holding my shovel, to check on him. His head was tilted at an odd angle and he was still staring at me but now he was mumbling about drool. All I was trying to do was work in the garden but now I have to watch out for my drooling neighbor. I don't get it. Why would someone drool? I thought only dogs did that. Am I missing something?

Signed, 
Just Trying to Garden


Dear Ain't and Irritated, 

     Ain't - I would suggest not hiding in the shrubs unless you want to meet the business end of your neighbors shovel. Go next door like a normal human and introduce yourself. It's almost Valentine's Day so maybe a packet of seeds would be appreciated.

     Irritated - Your weird neighbor has a crush on you so please resist attacking him with large tools. When he comes over keep the tissues handy. I think he drools.


Signed, 
Lorna Lovey
Advice Columnist

Sunday, February 7, 2016

No One But You

I sometimes wonder if I were a character in one of my stories, who I'd be. Bits of fiction, funny dialogue, and quirky characters ramble though files that fill my hard drive. I do not write to become an author but to let loose the tangle of words that flow through my brain, exploding like dried corn in a hot skillet. I write because I am a writer.

But to write about a garden is different. There are no clever characters and the setting is always the same. There is no one but me, my strengths and weaknesses exposed with every post. My garden, like my life, is my story and I am not a character but the author. I reveal with words and flowers the labyrinth of a deep heart and busy mind. 



There are no chances to go back and erase the parts of my story I don't like and replace them with perfect scenes and tidy endings. But between everything I cannot control, come the choices I can. I don't wait for what isn't coming or pretend to be anyone other than my own authentic self. I choose to live my life with passion and exuberance and to own every choice I make.  Each trip into the garden reminds me of the difference between a valid reason and a bullshit excuse so I whisper gently or yell ferociously to be your own hero, love. I pick up the shovel, dig a hole, and try again.