Nelson and I have been taking long, rambling walks that often leave me asking for directions and scratching my head. Without mountains in the west as a compass point, I’m frequently lost. It is delightful to be without a timetable; we wander, we talk to neighbors, we closely examine flowers and trees with which we are unfamiliar.
And one of us does a lot of playful yipping at other dogs.
(What? I like dogs).
I am eager to get a library card here to research the flora and fauna of our neighborhood. It the last two weeks, the colors have so changed. The pale, delicate pink blossoms of cherry trees have fallen, wilted and blown away, ashen along their edges. In place, these flamboyant fuschia bushes have come to life — including one in our yard. Azaleas, perhaps?
This red tree catches my eye in the evening. If you see it just in the right light, it appears to be illuminated from within.
These flowers are dainty and sultry — in their own Georgia O’Keeffe kinda way.
And oh, how I love the moss growing on these giant old trees. Everything is just so very, very green. Makes a desert girl reconsider her understanding of the color itself.
(There is some very navel-gazy-blog essay that could but won’t be written about being named after a shade of green, only to move to a land to better understand both the hue and myself. You’re welcome.)
This week, I’m researching gardening organizations and trying to find a New Jersey planting calendar. And sweet talking our landlord into letting me use a bit of additional space to put in some rows of vegetables, including transplanting my potted, rambunctious teenager tomatoes and peppers — their limbs reaching out with adolescent awkwardness.
Happy exploring to you, amigos.