Category Archives: step into my garden

beautiful little glimpses of the garden

in which she gives herself to the night …

Sometimes, on hot summer nights, when everyone else is sleeping, she steps out quietly into the cool night air.

into the night

She looks up at the stars.

And breathes in the silence. 

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She peels away the day’s layers, stretches up her arms and lets the night drop a soft slip of darkness over her.

The grass dewy beneath her feet …

The air blissful cool on her skin …

into the night

No-one knows she’s there.

It’s one of her favourite moments of summer.

Do you know someone who does that?

I might.

 

I’ve always loved the following little paragraph from Drusilla Modjeska’s book Stravinsky’s Lunch, which tells the stories of two female Australian artists, Stella Bowen and Grace Cossington Smith. This paragraph comes directly from Stella’s memoir Drawn from Life. She was an Adelaide girl born in 1893 who left Australia on the eve of World War 1 and lived the rest of her life in Europe. Paris, the rich, the poor, the famous, a bohemian. An artist.

“I think that the exhilaration of falling out of love is not sufficiently extolled. The escape from the atmosphere of a stuffy room into the fresh night air, with the sky as the limit. The feeling of freedom, of integrity, of being a blissfully unimportant item, in an impersonal world, whose vicissitudes are not worth a tear. The feeling of being a queen in your own right! It is a true re-birth.”

As Modjeska goes on to say “This marvellous passage is like a clarion call reaching across the years to every woman who has every struggled with her own disappointments in love, her own gaining of independence.”

It’s a wonderful book. Particularly the Stella Bowen section.

One moon.

Two different perspectives.

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Monet’s ghost

About this time each year, he wanders through our garden.

He doesn’t linger long.

purple irises

He just stops by and splashes a bit of purple about.

purple irises and lawn daisies

I once knew a couple who visited Monet’s home at Giverny in their later years. Well nearly visited it. Because right at the front gate.  Literally. Right. At. The. Front. Gate. …the husband had a heart attack.

What would you DOOOOOO?   (I think I said that a bit loud)

Steve’s looking at me horrified out of the corner of his eye… hmmmm?

…. and welllll … ummm, I’m returning his wide-eyed incredulous stare with a mischievous, wide eyed silent response.

It’s a bit awk.ward.

Let’s just pop some music on hey.

And who better to destroy the ambience break the ice than The Clash nya haa! Click here. Should I Stay or Should I Go? Crank it up!!  Create a bit of anarchy!! And have a rockin’ weekend!!

:)

xx

 

P.S. (he was ok)

P.S.S. (but his wife never spoke to him again because she was… So. Pissed. Off.)

P.S.S.S. (so. pissed. off…)

P.S.S.S.S. (Oh of course I’d go in the front gate ambulance with you … grrrrr)

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I know it’s wrong to covet your neighbour’s wife, but what about his peaches?

Looking over my neighbour’s fence is not something I normally do …

old wooden fence

But I’ve been guilty of it lately.

I’m not interested in his house, his wife, his manservant, his maidservant, his ox or his donkey.

I’m not even interested in his gorgeous, bright red, lovingly restored, vintage Morris Minor  … even if it is the cutest thing driving around Bathurst …

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No, it’s his peaches that I’ve been truly lusting after.

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Watching them ripen every time I stand at my kitchen bench.

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So I was pretty damned chuffed when he turned up with a bucketful at my back door this morning.

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Italian purples.

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Fresh off the tree.

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I think Bathurst is having the best season of stone fruit it’s had for years.

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My neighbour certainly is. Not that I’ve been watching or anything. Well not in a pervy kind of way.

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Let’s just say, I know a good peach when I see one.

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And I can tell you, they taste as good as they look.

Covet to your heart’s content :)

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