They is all in my garden. Or on window sills, cooing softly each morning.
Gathering twigs to build nests, lying on eggs inside their houses, chasing off squirrels and other pests from their nests.
Along with flowering bulbs of various colours — some truant, some close together.
The rain has kept everything blooming longer this spring.
And speaking of rain:
There is a river in the valley just below our garden. It was a stream, but since early May, it’s looked like this.
That’s how much rain we’ve had! It’s feeling like Ireland around here in Southern Ontario.
I won’t mention the mosquitoes, though. I simply won’t. Except to God, whom I occasionally ask: “Give me ONE good reason for mosquitoes, God! Just ONE!”
Every so often, I wish I had a well-behaved garden.
The kind where everything does what I want, when I want.
Where flowers don’t stray into lawns and lawns don’t stray into flowerbeds, and the strong wind didn’t break one of the arches on the arbour my dear husband so carefully built.
But this I know:
Real gardens offer up surprises each week, each day and sometimes, each hour.
Like flowers blooming in unexpected colours.
And interesting visitors.
Like this large bird in the apple tree.
And wild rabbits.
Cleaning themselves without a care in the world.
Like this mother duck, with her ducklings.
She must have squeezed herself under the fence.
This ant, dragging a dead moth many times its size. It took the moth way across the verandah.
This beet, expected to be dark red, is somehow orange.
A single squash. It’s from a vine that strayed from our neighbours’ squash plantation.
“It’s yours”, he says. The thing will grow to almost half my height. No kidding.
These onions, because they delight and surprise me each late summer.
And the garlic, just because the sight of them when newly harvested always surprises me.
The sight of our daughter’s little doggie, coming around the corner at full speed. Well, sort of.
And this shadow “selfie”, which I didn’t know was there till I downloaded it and nearly jumped in surprise.
My staircase looked as tall as Mount Everest. But there was no alternative: I’d have to climb the mountain.
My back and leg were on fire with pain. As I’d done so many times before, I stood at the bottom of the stairs, summoning the courage. Then I started climbing — on hands, feet and knees — and told myself that I was a brave mountaineer. Sometimes, you just have to lie to yourself and hope yourself believes it.
At the top landing, I sat down. The truth was that I feltexhausted, sorry for myself and not at all brave. But it was worth the trip upstairs to my office. An email came from my husband, who’d left for work early that morning.
“Forgot to tell you”, he wrote. “I heard a Cardinal singing this morning. I looked out the kitchen door and saw a female… the male must have been nearby.”
Via vitalxrecognition.wordpress.com/
I smiled. I could almost hear the bird singing. Could almost believe that spring had really arrived and winter was really over.
It was mid- afternoon and my daughter’s little dog, Mr. D., woke up and headed downstairs. It was time for his walk around the garden.
Photo by Hamlin Grange
Together we went out the door and into the garden, snowflakes swirling around us.
He scampered along and I followed slowly, leaning on my cane. His fur is white, making him invisible against the snow without his sweater on. And he’s so small that the low boxwood plants that border the centre garden bed can hide him completely.
At one point I couldn’t see Mr. D. at all, though he was standing just a few feet away, wearing his sweater. Then I saw a blur of black and white speeding around the boxwood circle. I smiled. He slowed down till I caught up.
Photo by Hamlin Grange
When we returned to the front doorway, I saw a small box, with my name on it.
I tore open the cardboard. There was a book inside.
It was Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things. I’d been wanting to read it.
There was a short note accompanying the book:
“For Cynthia, who notices things ‘close up’ and understands in both visceral and transcendent ways the ‘Signature of All Things’ and can write so beautifully even when she hurts.”
It was from Jacqui, who works at the London Public Library. How did she know? I wondered. How did she know that on a day like today, this gift would cheer me up no end?
I smiled. The angel at work again.
Sometimes the angel is a sound: the song of a cardinal on a winter day; the harmony played by the wind chimes on our verandah; the hilariously huge snore that comes from a tiny dog’s body as he snoozes on the floor beside me.
Sometimes she’s a scruffy-looking stranger. The young man who rushed to open a heavy door for me, his kind smile illuminating his entire face.
Sometimes she’s a friend. Jacqui, sending me that book. My husband, telling me that spring is here: the birds are singing. My sister, showing a keen understanding.
The phone rang. My sister had asked me – I forget when, exactly – to find out something for her. I did. But now she was on the phone, asking for the answer, and I couldn’t remember what it was that I’d found out. Too much pain, too little sleep, for days and nights on end. I felt ashamed to tell her that I couldn’t remember. I tried to speak; instead of words, a disjointed stutter was all I could manage. For just a moment, I felt as if I might burst into tears.
My sister recognized the warning signs and reacted quickly.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Just stop everything and rest now.”
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I imagine that if the angel ever showed up as herself, she’d look like my mother: soft brown skin, short, silver-grey hair, the picture of serenity. In the meantime, she takes different forms and sounds, and helps me out when I least expect it.
“How do you manage to project such positive thoughts on your blog when you’re feeling so miserable?” a friend asked me one day. She’d paid me a surprise visit, and found me struggling to get around.
“When I write on my blog, I try to uplift my readers,” I replied. “Not sure what it does for them, but it sure makes me feel better!” At that, we’d both shared an understanding laugh and sipped our tea.
Of course, I should also have said: “Did I ever tell you about the angel?”
Dedicated to Merle, Jane, Joanne — and all the other angels in my life.
Cynthia Reyes 