We Are All In Our Own Way Roses.

My thoughts are turning to gardens today. Last night I attended the annual meeting of the Allotment Society, the meeting of those of us who have garden plots in the same place.  I officially took ownership of my newer and larger plot. The plot, I am taking over, has been tended by an old man called Sandy. He has had it for the last 30 years, so there is a sense of nostalgia at his moving on.

So often, when we take over from another, we go in like the new broom and change everything. This was in fact my initial reaction. Sandy grew along the top of the plot a row of flowers. They were not the most beautiful of blooms and they were taking up enough space to grow a row of edible vegetables. Last night as I lay in bed I decided that the row of flowers would stay and I would tend them. When they bloom I will take a bunch of them to Sandy and his wife. Maybe even more than one bunch, a bunch during the flowering season, every week if I can.

While thinking of flowers I thought of the story of the man who was growing a rose.

A certain man planted a rose and watered it faithfully and before it blossomed, he examined it.

He saw the bud that would soon blossom, but noticed thorns upon the stem and he thought, "How can any beautiful flower come from a plant burdened with so many sharp thorns? Saddened by this thought, he neglected to water the rose, and just before it was ready to bloom... it died.

So it is with many people. Within the inner being of every person there is a rose. The good qualities planted and nurtured in us by parents and teachers. They grow amid the thorns of our faults. Many of us look at ourselves and see only the thorns, the defects.

We despair, thinking that nothing good can possibly come from us. We neglect to water the good within us, and eventually it dies. We never realize our potential.

Some people do not see the rose within themselves; someone else must show it to them. One of the greatest gifts a person can possess is to be able to reach past the thorns of another, and find the rose within them.

This is one of the characteristics of love, to look at a person, know their true faults and accepting that person into your life, all the while recognizing the nobility of the inner them.

We each can help others to realize they can overcome their faults. If we show them the "rose" within themselves, they will conquer their thorns. Only then will they blossom many times over.

But one little thing we must always remember, that we cannot nurture a person by only looking at the rose within for a person to really grow they need to also acknowledge the thorns that have also taken root in their lives.

My goodness here I am again almost at the preaching. Thank you Celeste for the words of encouragement on that front.

This blog is linked to my other.  Cornflowers

They make Me Smile

They make Me Smile

Well yesterday was most certainly a very mixed day of surprises and thoughts. It began with me deciding that I was feeling a lot better than I had in a long time, well enough to maybe even consider getting ready to take part in a race. I thought the best way to test this out was to go forth on my morning run and do a measured distance of a 10k run, 6.2 miles. My thinking was if I could do this in a reasonable time with a bit of training maybe I could manage a not too bad race around my birthday time. I did just that and was happy to discover that I could in fact do it in a reasonable time for my age.

In the process though, I very nearly got killed. I was running along a country road with no pavements. I was tight into the edge and running towards oncoming traffic. I was wearing bright yellow gear so could be seen for miles. Yet a car sped towards me the driver in a dream as he passed I felt the car rubbing along my leg and side. The driver awoke with a shock and had the nerve to blow his horn at me and wave two fingers at me. Amazing how such an experience makes you want to take stock.

Later in the day I got a message to tell me the painting I have used here sold. Another reason to stop, and take stock of what I am doing. There are still one or two people who seem to like my artwork.

The title of this painting came to me from a lovely remembrance of a dear old lady who lived in my parish. Let me share this with you.

I had a large, and I do mean large lawn when I was a minister. Like most people I spent a bit of time cutting and cultivating it. I had a neighbour who did the same with his. One day he was passing and commented that I had a not too bad crop of daises on my lawn. This prompted me to work even harder to have the kind of lawn you could putt a golf ball on.

Around about this time my wife said to me that the old lady in question had a lot of daises growing in her lawn and that it was getting long. She wondered if maybe I could find time to go down and give it a cut for her. I liked the old lady and was more than willing to do just that. I went down to see her. When I arrived she was sitting in the back garden. She invited me to join her and to go pour myself a coffee. As we sat, she began to say, “My the daises are so beautiful, how they open out and almost smile at you. They fill me with a feeling of love and happiness. It is such a shame all you folks spend so much time trying so hard to just get a green lawn. Look at what you are all missing.”

I did not offer to cut the lawn instead I say and enjoyed the daises. I have never had the same need to have a pristine lawn ever again.

This painting I sold was not of daises but sunflowers, but they reminded me of my dear old friend and her daises. So I called it, They Make Me Smile.

My old friend when she died she was buried in the local graveyard. In the summer there is always a lovely crop of daises on her grave. They remind everybody of her love.

When is a daisy a weed? Only when it is in the wrong lawn.

Have a nice day.

I am no longer linking to my other blog because I intend to stop writing it hoping that those who read it might come and join me here.

Flowers and Flowers.

What a strange start to my day yesterday. I published my blog all about the poppy and what it means to me, then as every day I pop round the blogs of the many friends whose blogs I so love reading. In the meantime Rudhi makes a comment on my blog about “Flower Power” and I thought I was the only one in this circle old enough to remember that. I then looked at Kim’s blog and there I saw a beautiful flower painting abstract in nature which always appeals to me. Then the crowning crunch Katherine has a blog about painting in the rain a little flower painting. I head off to the bath signing “Flowers in the Rain” and I am still signing it now as I sit and write this.


So we are thinking, flowers in the rain and flower power. For the younger readers, probably the majority are younger than me this was a time of love and peace and giving flowers as symbols of them. I remember walking along Princess Street in Edinburgh probably one of the most beautiful main streets in Scotland. My hair was almost at waist level, I was wearing a kaftan and bells, jeans and bare feet. It is ok I was not the only one my friends were the same. We had huge bunches of daffodils we had bought from the fruit market in the early hours of the morning and we were giving them to people as they passed along. “Peace my friend,” we said, “I hope you have a good day.”

One person made a comment, “If you are going to give out flowers you might make them decent ones.”

There is s lovely story about the young Zen monk. He and the Zen Master were in the temple one day. It was the task of the young monk to take care of the shrine. As they stood talking they saw an old lady approach the shrine and place two small plastic flowers on the shrine with great dignity and reverence. The young monk said, “as soon as she leaves I will remove those.” “Why?” asked the master. “Because they are plastic and terrible,” replied the monk, “we are trying to keep the shrine beautiful.”

“Do you think the Buddha would care if the flowers were plastic or real?” asked the master. “You do not like plastic and so you have made your mind plastic. All the Buddha would be interested about was the mind and the thoughts of the giver.”

The lady had given her token with a mind full of beautiful thoughts and kindness. The monk had thought he was thinking beautiful thoughts but instead he was caught up in his own values and ideas. He was then imposing his ideas on the old lady. Who knows where she got the plastic flowers or the story behind them, only her. Judge others as you wished to be judged.


This blog is linked to my other blog where the artwork is dicussed:-Flowers

The Garden and The Gardner.

I have my vegetable plot dug ready for next weeks planting of seeds. My potatoes are already planted and the neat mounds of earth stand in anticipation of the coming growth. Once the seeds are planted begins the waiting and the tending. The fertile soil is the ideal place for weeds and they compete with the seeds and plants for the nutrients of growth. It is a steady task hoe and keeping the weeds in check.


There is the story of the old man who lived on the edge of the village. He spent so most of his time in his garden now that his working life was behind him. His front garden was full of the most beautiful flowers each tended and supported. He diligently hoed between the plants and picked off the dead heads of blooms to encourage further growth. His rear garden was full of the most wonderful looking vegetables. It was said if you could find a weed in his garden then there must be something up with him and the doctor should be called.

One of his pleasures was to take a break and watch what was happening on the road past his gate. He could often been seen proudly resting on the top bar of the gate watching the world go by. “A man out standing in his own field.” (Think about that one) One day as he stood there a preacher walked past and on seeing the beauty of the garden stopped and said to the old man, “My, what a beautiful garden you and God have made here.” “Aye,” said the old man, “but you should have seen it when it was left to God on his own.” The preacher sighed and continued on his way.

Who decides what a weed is and what is a floral beauty? I remember out walking with my father as a young boy. We stopped to rest and have a sandwich; after all we had walked for miles. (Actually not much further than he walked daily, to his place of work. For me it was a long way.) We were surrounded by beautiful flowers and grasses. I insisted on picking some and making them into a posy to take home. Neither my father, nor my mother mentioned that they were dandelions and weeds, and they were duly put in a vase. It was only later in life I realised that they were weeds and in Scotland had a terrible nickname. (They were called pee the beds) to me they look so intricate and beautiful. Even now one of my favourite soft drinks is dandelion and burdock. Dandelion leaves in a salad add a wonderful crisp sharp flavour.

Who would argue that a well tended garden is a thing of great joy and beauty, but left to its own nature makes a wonderful job of creating an equally beautiful array and can provide sustenance, if we but look. A weed is only a weed if it is growing in what we consider the wrong place. Nature does well without the use of a colour wheel.

I had a blog prepared today about the different kind of ways that we can find water  but on reading the beautiful comment made by Katherine on yesterdays blog I decided to leave that as well said. I thank all those who are reading my blogs and making comments on them either on the blog or in email to me. It means much to me.  I am not going to mention names but I thank those who are so encouraging, you know who I mean.  Someone said that they found the world of blogging such a supportive and caring place. She was correct and I thank you all.

The artwork is dicussed on my other blog and can be seen at:- Summer Evening Field

The Joy of Flowers

I had a trip to the garden centre, time to begin thinking about what I will be planting and growing this season. As I drove there I saw that the snowdrops are in bloom even though the distant hills are still covered in snow. I always leave the garden centre feeling uplifted by the beauty of the flowers available, especially my first love orchids. The colours, shapes and the aroma make me heady with delight. Flowers speak volumes in their silent beauty. They are part of all the great occasions and festivals. When we marry, the bride carries them the groom wears one in his jacket, When somebody dies we offer them as tokens of consolation and an expression of our loss. When somebody is successful we offer them flowers and of course they are symbols of love and romance.


Those little snowdrops as they poke their little heads above the ground and the snow, call to us to prepare for the coming of spring. The lotus tells us to reach above the muddy tarnished part of life to see greater things. Then we have the rose, with its bud, opening with a wondrous glory of layer upon layer of petals. Walking into a room and smelling the strong aromatic scent of the hyacinth.

They speak to us of how we can brighten the lives of others by bringing a pleasant sense of peace into every corner. They tell that there is nothing that cannot be made better. Think of the poppy, it manages to bloom in the barest of positions. It also reminds us of the frailty of life and how each moment should be grasped and lived to its full.

The gardener tends with care his plants encouraging them to give of their best. He feeds them, waters them and in windy conditions he helps by giving them support. In return they reward him with all that they have.

The artist can capture the beauty that is so fleeting and ephemeral, and allow that beauty to last for years to come. The poet will strive to find the words to express that inner joy that the sight of a flower can bring. Consider the words of William Wordsworth.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Such is the way of the Tao.