Remembering Garden

My mom died suddenly on April 15th this year. 

Grief can be overwhelming. 

I brought home plants and flowers from the funeral that so many kind people sent in mom's memory. And my church community, knowing me well, gifted me with even more plants for a remembering garden. I cried almost every time I put a plant in the ground, pressing the soil firmly around the roots, making my shady, quiet backyard a place to rest, to grieve, to remember. 

I noticed yesterday with a shock that my caladiums had broken through the surface. I had all but given up on them after a month of waiting. Having never planted bulbs nor seen how they grow, I'm awestruck by the way they spiral out of the ground. 

My teacher friends gifted me weeks later with memorial funds that I used to purchase two Japanese maples.

Eve holds the "Shaina" we selected.

"Brilliant red leaves in spring change to maroon and then a new bright red flush of new growth in May"

Metro Maples

Acer palmatum ‘Fireglow’

"An upright red leaf Japanese maple that holds its red color in the heat. Brilliant scarlet in the fall." 

A friend once told me cheerily that my backyard was "like the woods." I still glow when I think of that. Another person might simply think I'm letting it go, so I suppose it's all in your perspective. For awhile I faithfully pulled up the "weeds" to make room for the bermuda that was struggling to grow. But at some point, I realized I was removing lovely, soft ground covers that grew effortlessly, carpeting the ground where only dirt or scraggly grass would otherwise be. Now I pull up only the growth that promises to be prickly and (trying out a permaculture technique recommended by a friend) let it decompose on the surface. Everything else gets to grow as it will.