Thursday, October 25, 2012


            Tim and I got some hard news this week. A very dear friend and long-time client received a diagnosis of Stage 4 lung cancer. It somehow feels appropriate—if “appropriate” is even close to the right word—that this body-slam should come in the fall, when a transitioning world puts on its gayest and gaudiest dress before fading into grey.

            In southeastern North Carolina, the deciduous trees don’t put on much of a show most years. Except for the maples, reds are muted, browned. Tulip poplar and sycamore leaves turn bright yellow for about ten minutes before their edges go crispy, and they’re on the ground.  Occasionally the sweet gums spark multi-hued, but dull purple is much more common.

            This is not to say the landscape’s gone bland. You just have to take the time to look.  When I did, I found shards of rainbow all over the place.


            Red pentas blazing in a windowbox.


            An orange sweet pepper, possibly the last of the season.


            A yellow-yellow black-eyed susan petal, still hanging on.


Yellow-orange tarragon flowers dug from a friend’s house last Saturday.


Chartreuse new growth on ‘Alabama Sunset’ coleus.


New green baby iceberg lettuce leaves.

Metallic blue Viburnum tinus berries.



True-blue mealycup sage, one of my favorite flowers.

Yellow-eyed lavender asters hugging the ground.


Velvety violet Mexican bush sage.

 The magnificent magenta of an ‘Alabama Sunset’ leaf.

Even if you live where sugar maples blaze all October long or where bougainvillea blooms year-round, comfort—and joy—can be found in nature’s saturated colors, even when the world dips into shadow.

Gratitude for what we have is so important. Thanks for dropping by.