Clematis flowers – Cynthia Reyes

A Good Home, Clematis, Courage, Friendship

Life Changes

May 17, 2016 Cynthia Reyes

Blog Photo - Blue-Pink clems

I’m praying for two women I’ve never met in person.

They are in my blogging community. One in Southern Africa, one in the United States. Each was bereaved recently.

I’m also praying for a blogger and his beloved wife in England. She has been undergoing cancer treatments.

Some people may be surprised that we care so much when another blogger hurts. But we do, especially when someone has a health scare or experiences a loss.

Blog Photo - Garden rain cu of lavender blue clematis

Through blogging, we get to know each other’s stories. We read about each other’s lives, families, dreams, disappointments, and triumphs.

We rejoice over the good times: a daughter passes her exams; a parent’s health improves; a husband gets a better job.

So why wouldn’t we also hope and/or pray that a blogger – or a spouse – will triumph over a serious illness?

Blog Photo - BLue clems and Salvia

Why wouldn’t we feel a terrible sadness when the husband of a blogger-friend dies suddenly?

Bloggers know that life changes when we least expect it. That the challenge is to learn, accept, adapt. Which is so easy to say, and so hard to do.

Blog Photo - Blue clematis2

There is such pain in the world.

But also, such hope. Such kindness.

And such courage.

We see that every day in each other’s blog posts.

And we know that, sometimes, just taking the next step is an act of courage.

Dedicated to the persons mentioned in this post, and to all who currently feel buffeted by life’s strong winds. All these flowers are for you.

Blog Photo - Pink Clematis

Photos by Hamlin Grange

A Good Home, Author Cynthia Reyes, Blue Flowers, Canadian Gardens, Canadian life, Flowers, Gardens, Heritage Homes, Homes, Hosta, Photographs, Summer Garden

A Bloomin’ Finale

August 31, 2014August 30, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

Welcome to the last of the summer vines.

Purple clematis hanging on, above.

Also, do you remember that the wild rabbits ate two of my favorite clematis vines right down to the ground last winter?

Well, the pink one finally resurrected itself in mid-summer. And started blooming this week.

I’m glad, because it’s the clematis on the cover of my book, A Good Home.

And I’m taking it as a sign that there’ll be more books in my future!

Meanwhile, I walked around the garden in search of more ‘last blooms’. Ever tried holding a cane in one hand and a camera in the other?

The result is uneven. (Some of you, my blogger friends, are fantabulous photographers, so – be kind!)

The white-blooming hosta, above, is a fresh sight in the fading garden.

So is a very late Annabelle hydrangea bloom.

Normally, they’ve all turned green already.

The morning glories are now blooming in two colours, though I planted only one (the blue-purple).

Some flowers bloom gloriously….

… and some are shy.

Just like people.

Wishing you a happy Labour Day weekend.

A Good Home, Canada, Canadians, Clematis, Daisy buds, Flowers, Gardening, Gardens, Hosta, Lady's Matnle, Life in canada, Lifestyle, Rain, Red currants, Spruce tree, Sun

Rain, Shine and the Spaces Between

July 1, 2014June 3, 2016 Cynthia Reyes

The skies turn dark, more grey than black.

The air becomes perfectly still.

And then comes the rain, in sheets and showers.

Pouring down on dry grass, garden beds…

… and our verandah roof.

The water streams down in front of and beside the verandah.

I sit on a chair, enjoying this moment from a safe perch of my own.

“I should grab my camera”, I tell myself. But I sit still, unwilling to interrupt the moment.

Overhead, small branches of pale-green maple leaves sway in the air.

Red weigela flowers move amid green leaves, showered by water, ruffled by wind.

Below them both, large hosta leaves are weighed down with raindrops.

Dip, dip. Fall back.

Unless you’re laden with red currants… in which case: Dip, dip. Fall forward.

The tall blue spruce tree stands majestic, appearing unmoved by the wind and showers.

But there’s light movement in its outermost branches. The tree has taken on a soft look, its face gentled by the rain.

All birds have taken cover, tucking themselves into dry spaces between thick branches.

One small bird sees opportunity. It darts into the rain, tail feathers wet and glistening, and aims straight for its target. It stays there, pecking, content to be alone with what it usually has to compete for: a space at the feeder.

From the verandah’s eaves trough, powerful streams torrent into the garden bed below. The Annabelle hydrangea is taking a beating, it seems. Branches, gracefully upright a few minutes ago, part with the wisdom of growing things faced with the unstoppable power of water.

It’s merely minutes later now.

The water from the eaves trough narrows. Long thin streams of vertical water form a transparent drape in the space between verandah posts.

Five streams falling steadily on the earth. Then four. Then, three. Then two, then one.

A trickle, now.

Then a quiet drip.

The rush of water, the soft thud of raindrops, the splash on leaves and flowers — all come to a stop. As if a mighty switch was turned on, then off, the rain has come and gone.

Flowers glisten.

Birds chirp and fly towards a single spot: the feeder.

And I think, as I watch them:

How smart that first bird was.

The one that went before, wet tail-feathers and all.

And how remarkable water is.

Liquid, fluid, transparent. Forceful and life giving.

And as I sit on my verandah, giving thanks for it all – the rain, the trees and shrubs and flowers, and the birds and a place in which to sit, protected — the sun comes out.