Flowers
A Touch of Zen
Today, was a perfect summer day... Hot, but not too hot, no humidity and a clear blue sky. So I decided to spend some time with the lilacs, cutting back dead limbs and thinning out a few overgrown areas. Just the perfect excuse to be outdoors! Let's get into it...
The Originals
Nearly fifty years ago, two lavender lilac bushes were planted in the backyard here at House 173. It’s hard to imagine now what the yard must have looked like then—fresher, emptier perhaps—but those lilacs took root, settled in, and made the space their own.
They’ve weathered everything from harsh winters to hot, stubborn summers, yet each spring they continue to bloom, filling the yard with a soft fragrance that’s become part of the rhythm of life here.
A Volunteer
Over the decades, something unexpected happened. A white lilac began to grow in the same patch, quietly establishing itself among the originals like it had always belonged.
No one knows exactly how it got there—maybe a seed carried by wind or bird—but there it was, a soft white surprise in a cluster of lavender.
Then this past spring, another lilac appeared, this time discovered near the shed. We’d never noticed it before, tucked away behind tools and forgotten corners. I decided to transplant it to the main lilac patch, bringing it into the family, so to speak. It hasn't bloomed yet, so we don’t know what color it will be. There's a kind of anticipation in that—not knowing, but looking forward.
Among the Lilacs
This morning,
I worked among the lilacs—
clearing dead limbs,
thinning what had grown too wild.
The lavender ones,
planted decades ago,
stood quiet as always,
patient in their giving.
A white one grew there too,
arrived on its own,
as things sometimes do
when we’re not looking.
And now a newcomer,
lifted from beside the shed,
waits to show its color.
There is a kind of peace
in this slow tending—
not in the bloom,
but in the reaching in,
the listening,
the soft, small work
of care.
I move gently
through their branches
and am made quiet too.
GB Shaw Jr.
2025
A Little Clipping
Today, I spent time among the lilacs, cutting back dead limbs and thinning out a few overgrown areas.
There’s something about that kind of work—quiet, steady, hands in the branches—that brings a kind of peace I haven’t found anywhere else. It’s not just gardening; it feels like tending to something sacred. These lilacs aren’t just plants. They’re part of the memory of this place. They've seen seasons, storms, celebrations, and quiet afternoons. They've grown alongside us.
A Small Donation
A couple of winters back, I made a small donation to the Arbor Day Foundation—nothing big, just enough to feel like I was giving back in some small way. In return, they sent me a young white lilac bush, barely more than a twig in the beginning. We planted it in the still-frozen ground in late winter, almost spring in '22 alongside the others in the patch, where it’s been slowly taking hold, stretching toward the sun, learning the rhythms of this yard. Here's a shot in its first summer. Because it was small, I circled it:
It's a quiet sort of satisfaction, planting something like that. A gesture that feels both humble and hopeful. That little gift reminded me how simple it can be to contribute to something lasting. I should do that more often—support the work of trees, of green things, of roots making their way underground. It's a small act, but like a lilac seed, it can lead to something beautiful.
A Zen-Like Moment
Every time I prune or clear a branch, I feel more connected—not just to the plants, but to 173 itself. These lilacs, planted almost a quarter century ago, still stand tall. Still bloom. Still remind us that something planted with care can outlast us, can change and grow in ways we never expect, and still bring beauty year after year.
Hey, thanks for stopping by - see ya' next time!