These past few days have been filled with unexpected happenings that have caused me to be away from writing of any sort. Because I am absolutely weary, and haven't had time to gather any ideas for the blog, I asked my friend Lorna Seilstad if I could share the blog she recently posted for her readers. She graciously agreed. Otherwise, I would have been forced to hijack it from her. (Just kidding). Lorna blogs with a group of writers at http://inkspirationalmessages.com/ so you might pop over and check it out. I really enjoyed this recent blog and thought all of you might like it as well:
In Victorian times, flowers had meanings and when one selected a bouquet, he or she paid particular attention to the flowers selected. Even the colors of certain flowers such as roses carried specific sentiments. Here are just a few:
Azalea: Take care of yourself for me, fragile passion
Bay Leaf: Strength
Dandelion: Wishes come true
Marigold: Comforts the heart
Orange Mock: Deceit
Spider Flower: Elope with me
White Violet: Let’s take a chance on happiness
Viscaria: Will you dance with me?
The meaning of floral language extended as far as far as to how a flower was accepted. For example, if a man offered his love a rose upside down, he was saying he rejected her. If he offered it upright, but she accepted it with her left hand, she was telling him “no.” With the right hand, she indicated that “yes, she accepted his affections.”
Today, our flowers and our gardens say less about us--or do they? To get things started, consider this quote:
“Gardens are a form of autobiography.” ~Sydney Eddison,
Horticulture magazine, August/September 1993
If Sydney Eddison is right, I may be in trouble. Up until this year, I dutifully worked in my grow-in-the-dark garden. Every shade plant which flourishes in Iowa found a home in my little lot—hostas, lilies of the valley, cinnamon ferns, pink splash, begonias, and the crown jewels impatiens of all varieties.
But this year, between a pressing book deadline and planning my son’s graduation party, my poor little garden was left unattended. Then, one day I leaned over my front porch railing and saw an amazing sight. The bleeding hearts had blossomed, the ferns filled out, and the pink splash continued to spread into the open area assigned to it. The lilies of the valley swung their white bells in the wind. Oh the joys of perennials!
And all of this without me lifting a finger—this year.
Perhaps Sydney is right and the garden is an autobiography. When the weeds start filling in the places I’ve yet to mulch, and the clay pots remain empty of their annual impatiens, my garden will proclaim to the world I was too busy to stop and enjoy one of life’s most simple pleasures—a garden. And if I am too busy for a garden, what else am I missing out on? You see, for me, my garden has been synonymous with dreams. I love these words by Abram Urban.
In my garden there is a large place for sentiment.
My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams.
The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful.
~Abram L. Urban
Now, it’s your turn. Do you think a garden is an autobiography? Why or why not? And in view this, what does this last quote have to do with writers or anyone who has a dream?
There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the budwas more painful than the risk it took to blossom.- Anais Nin
Pretty heavy stuff, but Lorna and I have faith in you, so let's hear some comments or Lorna may never let me "borrow" one of her blogs again!
Lorna has a new book being published by Revell Publishing titled Making Waves that will release in September. It is the first book in her Lake Manawa series of historical books.
May you find joy as you find rest in the arms of Jesus. ~Judy