Cicadas and Roses and God

They are here with a vengeance, singing to the dawn, filling the air with their thrumming. In six weeks their crispy bodies will carpet everything in sight, but for now, they are cicadas enjoying life up from the ground which patiently awaits their return to a seventeen year long sleep undisturbed. For now, the very air is filling with their music. Some find it intrusive….turn it off already!….but I, knowing this is likely the last time I will experience their presence, am enjoying the symphony.

More power to them.

I’m always thankful for gorgeous summer days. The sky is painfully blue, with rare scudding clouds. The humming bird is sipping sugar water in the cool shade of the porch, undisturbed by my presence as I snip ever blooming red roses for the bud vase that will decorate my bathroom counter until frost gets them in the autumn. The blossoms grow on short thin stems with lots of thorns, not unlike the rambling rose variety, and have no scent. Still, they are a lovely soft red heightened by the huge pot of snow white pansies next to them. I spent a half hour dead -heading.

To my knowledge I have no Italian blood; nevertheless, basil and oregano are my favorite herbs along with thyme so they are threaded throughout the few flowers in my garden, scenting the morning along with the lavender. Lemon verbena rubbed gently perfumes everything.

I’m a poor gardener. Likely because, for one thing, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Pinch what? And where? Too much water? Too little? The potted fern staggers through the winter with me, and this year survived me reasonably well, so it’s outside, finished shedding its winter brown, and looking pretty good, no thanks to me. It’s the best I can do.

My bestie knows how to look at a plant, and when she visits, she pinches and prunes  while we talk and gossip and catch up with each other, and before I know it my house plants look groomed and healthy. I simply don’t see what she sees.

I think God is something like that with me. I’m one of the countless blooms in His vast garden. I dislike the pinching and pruning I apparently need. Sometimes it really hurts, leaves me feeling a bit bare, and shorn. But by and by I recover and look pretty good too, until the time when I’m scraggly again, and then here He comes with His shears to tidy me up. He knows exactly how I should look. Not quite a rose among thorns. But close.

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