Blossom

'Flower', says Mira, my two year old granddaughter, pointing at her floral hairclip. Then 'flower', she says again, pointing out the window.  I look out and discover the most glorious sight in my son's garden: a fulsome mass of delicate pink, like a young girl spreading her ballet skirts, all ready to curtsey. There it stands, a flowering cherry tree, rising out of the long grass.
'Blossom!' I exclaim. 'Lots of flowers. It's a blossom tree'.
'Blossom,' says Mira, trying out this new word. And I think what a beautiful word it is. Then I ponder on the difference between a flower and a blossom. The dictionary, ever technical and accurate, tells me that blossom means flower or bloom, especially of a fruit bearing plant. Blossom also means to begin to thrive or flourish.

When I look at the blossom tree, I think of youth, hope and beauty. I think of the wonder of youth, when the whole world seems to be frothy and full of life. I think of opening to life.  I believe in romance. I feel my heart bloom into another season of hope.

Tui serenade.

'Keow, Keow', sings the tui as the sun shines golden  at the end of day. 'Keow, Keow', and then a single, pure high note. The tui's song is full of hope. Maybe she's singing for a mate, or maybe just for the sheer joy of it.
I'm reminded that spring delivers, not just shocks and jolts, but also gifts of pleasure. My day was spent dealing with a burst pipe inside the wall. It's fixed, leaving gaping holes in both kitchen and bathroom. But after a day without water, I now marvel at the way it gushes forth when I turn on the tap.
It's the same with the song of the tui in the flame tree. After so much stormy weather, with not a bird to be heard, I am now being gifted an exquisite serenade.

Asserting growth

Spring growth erupts out of clenched fists. No matter how much we contract, dig our heels in, shut out the fierce interventions of nature, growth is programmed. Despite earthquakes and storms, new leaves find their way through, reaching to the sky.

Brave kowhai in the storm

Usually I delight in the kowhai flowering. It's so abundant, and the yellow flowers give their nectar so easily to the tuis that dip in their long beaks. But today the kowhais are lashed by fierce winds, their sunshine colour is tarnished, and the tuis are hiding.

The week-long storm

The storm continues, tearing down trees, scattering debris everywhere, knocking over bins and tables. I saw a huge limb hanging against a tree yesterday, but when I returned to photograph it, the leafy mess was gone. Only the wound remained. I was tempted to go out to the bach, but because it's on the west coast, I can't be sure that the power and phone lines will still be working. Today it feels a treat to return to the shelter of home, and rest in the memory of last night's beautiful spring equinox ritual of balance.

St Mary's Rd

Cowan Street

Spring Equinox

Today is Spring Equinox and full moon: an unusual conjunction, which brings our Southern Hemisphere Easter and Spring Equinox together on the same day. Last night I gathered my group for a ritual of balance, to find grounding and stillness in this wild spring We contemplated what needs rebalancing in our lives, and meditated to Yo Yo Ma playing Bach: music that brought our connection deep into the earth, like roots going down to strong holding. This is what we need when spring plays havoc with our sense of stability. The ritual was nourishing and energising. Together we created sanctuary.

The Japanese bowl above was placed in the centre to suggest potential and promise: growth to come. In the centre of the bowl sits a tiny 'chicken' from a hen-and-chickens fern.

The stillness of water and our power to contemplate, to enter the well of silence

The Altar: spaciousness and beauty in a season that is ragged and strewn with debris. Symbols for Earth, Water, Air and Fire. Rebalancing.

Bluebells

My friend Jennie brought a me a bunch of bluebells, knowing how I love them. My father grew bluebells in a shady patch down the bottom of his garden, where they spread freely under the oak tree. When he died, I dug up some bulbs and planted them in my own garden. Some years later I left that house, but took a few bulbs with me to the new one, and also planted some at the bach.
Each spring when they flowered, I thought of them as 'Darcy's bluebells'. But I left my house two years ago, and no longer had a garden. Building work smothered the bluebell patch at the bach, leaving just a few. I gathered them, all four stems, just recently, feeling a little sad.
Then Jennie arrived, with her abundant bunch. 'I love bluebells too,' she said. 'These originally grew in my grandfather's garden.' Her bulbs also carry a heritage of love, family, and continuity. And so it is; we tend our gardens, we cherish the hidden bulbs which secretly multiply, and we gift them to others. Love may seem to dive underground at times, but in spring it surfaces once more and sweetly asks to be shared.