Grieving Gardener

June arrives differently in the high desert.

Not softly.
Not politely.

One day, the wind still carries spring on its shoulders, and the next, the sunlight sharpens against the white fence at Winterpast as if summer has suddenly remembered where we live. The sage begins to silver in the heat. Long evenings stretch themselves across the yard. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle drifts through open windows while the sprinklers begin their nightly conversation with the thirsty earth.

Hello, June.

A new month deserves to begin with hope, even when understanding how quickly life can change. Hope is even more important after those years. Grief changes the way a person looks at calendars with the realisation that a promise of endless summers is a myth. Ordinary mornings matter more. A cup of coffee on the deck becomes enough reason to pause. A bloom opening in the flower bed feels almost heroic after surviving late frosts and brutal winds.

This spring has been a little like life itself around here. Warm one moment. Frozen the next. Confusing. Beautiful. Exhausting. Full of surprises.

At least the roses are trying, and so are we.

Winterpast is waking into its summer self now. The lawn needs mowing faster than I can keep up with it. Tiny birds scold from the trees while Oliver patrols the fence line as if national security depends entirely upon him. The irrigation system continues to behave like a practical joke designed by exhausted engineers. Somewhere, mildew is undoubtedly plotting against HHH. And still, every morning, the desert sky rises impossibly blue above all of it.

There is comfort in familiar rhythms.

For years now, writing has become one of mine.

Some mornings, the words arrive easily. Other days, they come slowly, like reluctant visitors unsure whether they are welcome. But I keep showing up anyway. That is something grief taught me. Healing is rarely dramatic, but most often it looks like continuing. Watering flowers. Vacuuming dog hair. Paying bills. Laughing unexpectedly. Planning trips. Writing another sentence.

Living another day.

June feels like an invitation to do a little more of that.

Not perfectly.
Not fearlessly.
Not with life completely figured out.

Just faithfully.

There was a time when I thought healing would someday arrive like a lightning strike. A sudden moment where everything hurt less, and life returned to normal. Instead, healing arrived quietly. In gardens. In friendships. In road trips. With HHH. In writing. In dogs growing old beside us. In learning how to carry both joy and sorrow at the same time without dropping either one.

That may be the real gift of June.

Not a fresh start exactly.
But permission to keep growing anyway.

So here at Winterpast, beneath a Nevada-blue sky and the sound of sprinklers turning against dry earth, I’m welcoming another month with cautious optimism and grateful hands.

The flowers are blooming again.

And after everything, so are we.

The gardens of Winterpast are in a state of confusion this year.

First, it was ninety degrees in February. Trees and flowers awakened far too early beneath Nevada-blue skies, stretching toward a warmth that felt more like April than winter. Tender green shoots emerged with confidence, trusting the season. Then winter returned without apology, freezing new growth overnight.

Warmth followed again. Blossoms opened. Bees returned. Hope stirred.

And then another frost came.

While we were away, after days of eighty-degree sunshine, another cold spell swept across the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Gone are the baseball-sized peonies that had proudly announced themselves only days before. Their heavy heads now hang low, browned by cold and left to struggle toward whatever comes next.

But the crab apple tree must be in a very determined mood these days.

Against all reason, she was blooming again. One brief show of tiny pink blossoms to announce, I am here and I will not give up to the weather.

Not as boldly as before. Not covered in the extravagant blossoms she first offered to spring. This time, only scattered soft pink petals are opening quietly to the sun, visited by confused honey bees zigzagging through the chilly air. Still, she blooms.

Standing in the middle of our yard, she has become my newest symbol for people learning to live after grief, heartbreak, illness, aging, disappointment, or loss.

Life changes us. Frost touches every living thing eventually. Some seasons arrive too harshly. Some winters stay too long. We lose parts of ourselves we thought would always remain untouched. The garden never survives unchanged.

Neither do we.

Yet somehow, deep inside, there remains a quiet instinct to bloom again.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. Not without scars left by difficult seasons. But gently. Patiently. One small blossom at a time.

The roses at Winterpast are trying too. Their frost-bitten tips have finally begun to grow out, reaching cautiously toward another season. Tiny buds are appearing now, much smaller than usual, but present nonetheless. The lavender is uneven. The maple dropped leaves in protest weeks ago. Even the sturdy sagebrush looks uncertain beneath the endless Nevada wind.

Powderly mildow is attacking the tiny new leaves. Yesterday, the rains washed away the Neem Oil HHH sprayed just the day before. Everything feels slightly delayed this year. Slightly bruised.

And perhaps that is why the gardens feel so honest.

There is something deeply comforting about watching living things continue after hardship. Not untouched by it, but continuing anyway. The crab apple tree does not stand in the yard mourning the blossoms she lost. She simply gathers herself and begins again with what remains.

There is wisdom in that.

Grief once taught me that happiness would never return looking exactly as it had before. I waited a long time for life to become what it once was, until slowly realizing that healing rarely works that way. New joy grows differently. Softer perhaps. More fragile in appearance. But often deeper rooted than before.

The gardens of Winterpast remind me daily that survival is not failure. Blooming after the frost is its own kind of courage.

And that is enough for this season.

A little sunshine.
A little hope.
And the quiet decision to go ahead anyway, one step at a time.

We were simply trying to enjoy one final dinner before sailing north to Alaska. It was the first night and only night in a new country that we were already finding confusing and unattractive. Flights before embarkation meant we had to stay on land the first night of our vacation. The choice was made for us.

The setting should have been perfect. Poolside at an overpriced waterfront resort in Vancouver, mountains fading into evening light, soft conversation drifting through the air, water shimmering beneath strings of carefully arranged lights. The kind of atmosphere designed to convince travelers they were experiencing luxury.

The setting let us down.

After being checked into a second-floor ADA room with a wheel-in shower and plenty of handrails, the bloom was off that rose. A sliding door opened to a substantial guard rail. That’s right. A removable wall with protection in case someone wanted to step out on the balcony, which was missing.

The view, so attractive, overlooked the restaurant’s roof, where we would eat just hours later.

The meal itself was another matter entirely. First line of advice. If a place advertises barbecue, be sure that it smells of barbecue. This was frozen and microwaved, yet sold at down-home, fresh-cooked prices. Overpriced and undercooked. I doubt there are enough rain-free days for Canadians to develop the true art of grilled food.

Still, HHH and I sat quietly talking, trying to enjoy the evening for what it was. In less than 12 hours, we’d board our ship and sail away. That in itself was enough.

Marines and hunters never completely lose their skills, and HHH is both.

Something moved near one of the chase lounges beside the pool, instantly catching HHH’s eye. At first, he pointed casually, assuming it was a squirrel. That would have fit the postcard image better. Canada is supposed to have squirrels.

Then the creature stepped fully into the light.

Not a squirrel.

A rat.

And not some tiny little alley rat either. This thing was nearly the size of a cat, thick-bodied and bold, disappearing beneath the lounge chairs as though it owned the place.

A few moments later, the waiter returned to refill our waters. Naturally, we mentioned it.

“Oh, that,” he said casually. “I’ve seen bigger.”

That response may have disturbed me more than the rat itself.

No embarrassment. No surprise. No concern whatsoever.

Apparently, oversized poolside rats had become just another normal part of the atmosphere at this elegant waterfront resort. Not exactly a glowing tourism campaign.

The moment stayed with me because it seemed oddly symbolic of so much else I had begun noticing. Expensive appearances masking uncomfortable realities. Polished brochures covering cracks nobody wanted to discuss. More crowds. More restrictions. More concrete. More people packed into shrinking spaces while nature adapted in the ugliest ways possible.

The rats, apparently, are thriving beautifully.

Not a good look, Canada. Like so many things in life, the expensive facade could only hide reality for so long. Glad we sailed away the next morning.

Part of any cruise is Formal Night. On these special evenings, the ship transforms. The crew appears in crisp tuxedos. Crystal glasses sparkle beneath soft lighting. Women drift through hallways wrapped in satin, sequins, and carefully chosen jewelry. Men suddenly stand a little taller in jackets and polished shoes. Everything feels elegant, suspended slightly outside ordinary life.

Living on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, there are not many occasions where rhinestones and sequins truly belong. Winterpast is far more accustomed to dusty winds, garden gloves, irrigation leaks, and dogs racing through the yard than glittering evenings beneath chandeliers. Somewhere along the way, practicality quietly replaces glamour. Comfort replaces ceremony.

Yet something unexpected happens while getting ready for Formal Night.

Taking care of the outside awakens something long forgotten on the inside.

Perhaps it begins while carefully applying lipstick or fastening earrings that have remained untouched in a jewelry box for years. Perhaps it happens standing before a mirror, smoothing fabric and realizing the woman reflected there has survived far more than anyone in the dining room could ever know. Dressing up becomes more than appearance. It becomes remembrance.

Of course, HHH only needs to place his wool fedora on his head to command attention immediately. For all the beautiful dresses hanging in my closet, his fedora has probably received ten times the compliments. Some people simply carry a kind of timeless presence about them. The hat enters the room before he does.

But beneath the laughter and compliments, something deeper lingers quietly underneath evenings like these.

For those who have traveled an extended grief journey, dressing up can become an unexpected act of self-care. Grief has a way of convincing people to disappear into the background of life. To stop noticing themselves. To stop believing beauty still belongs to them. Survival clothing replaces celebration clothing. Softness is exchanged for endurance.

And then one evening, somewhere far from home, a woman slips into a pretty dress again.

Not for validation. Not for attention. But because a small part of her soul is beginning to awaken once more.

Healing begins on the inside, quietly and invisibly, but eventually it shines outward too. It appears in lifted shoulders, brighter eyes, laughter that arrives more easily, and the willingness to step back into the pretty side of life without guilt.

Perhaps that is what Formal Night truly celebrates. Not elegance alone, but renewal. A reminder that even after life breaks us apart, there may still come a day when we choose sparkle again.

Back at Winterpast, beneath Nevada-blue skies and zephyr winds, sequins may once again return to the closet beside gardening gloves and dusty boots. But now I understand something important. Dressing up was never really about the clothing.

It was about dressing up the soul.

People spend fortunes searching for beauty while ignoring the quiet wonder surrounding them every single day. We board airplanes. We cross oceans. We stand in awe before glaciers, feel the mist of a tropical rainforest or breathtaking waterfall, while ignoring the beauty in places we already call home.

At first glance, the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada might seem to be a vast expanse of nothing to some. Especially after returning from someplace like Vancouver, where rain falls endlessly, and everything glows green beneath soft gray skies. At Winterpast, we receive around five inches of precipitation in a year. Brown hills stretch beneath endless blue skies. Sagebrush bends beneath the zephyr winds. To some eyes, this land appears empty.

And yet, beauty lives here too.

During the last three years, HHH and I have been blessed to travel to extraordinary places. We enjoyed breakfast while cruising through Glacier National Park. We explored the wild beauty surrounding Icy Strait Point. We watched the world unfold in ways that felt almost too beautiful to be real. Travel changes you. It reminds you how vast and remarkable this planet truly is.

But returning home, beauty quietly unfolds at our own back door.

Only miles from here lies one of the darkest skies on the planet. On a moonless night, the heavens spill open across the Nevada sky in ways most people will never experience. Have we gone out to experience it? Not yet. Shame on us.

The Eastern Sierra Nevadas rise like guardians over the desert plains. Doves nest inside the Japanese maple at Winterpast. Finches splash in the fountains on our warm afternoons. Wind moves through sagebrush with its own ancient language. Train whistles drift across town at night, lonely and familiar all at once.

These things are woven so tightly into daily life that they almost disappear.

Familiarity is strange that way. The extraordinary slowly becomes ordinary simply because we see it every day.

Perhaps that’s why people spend so much time searching for paradise. We begin to believe beauty requires distance. A passport. A cruise ship. A famous destination printed on a brochure.

The truth is, paradise has never depended upon geography. True paradise is simply learning to notice your own life.

Here, it lives in the scent of sage after rain. In the sound of doves cooing at dawn. In the blue Nevada sky, stretching forever above the desert. In the comfort of familiar winds rushing by while standing in your own yard. The world is full of beautiful places.

Journeying on, I’ll hold this important truth close.

Paradise doesn’t always require a passport.

More tomorrow.

Memorial Day is here, draped in flags, parades, and the solemn beauty of remembrance. Our town is home to the Northern Nevada Veterans’ Memorial Cemetery. Each year, hundreds of volunteers arrive on the Saturday before Memorial Day to place a flag at the grave of each soldier. More than 10,000 are laid to rest. HHH and I were two of them.

As we honored those who never came home, HHH softly said their names. We placed a flag and a red carnation above the grave marker and paused for a moment of gratitude before going on to the next. In a few short hours, all flags were in place. Each year, the number grows, as does the number of volunteers taking time to help.

But there are those soldiers who did come home. At least physically. And for many of those, the ghosts of war often returned with them, haunting them for the rest of their lives.

Young men and women left for distant lands carrying the full weight of duty on their shoulders. Most boarded planes and ships, believing deeply in protecting fellow troops, serving their country, and defending America’s honor. They were trained to survive, react, and remain alert long after exhaustion set in. The warrior switch was flipped on.

Throughout their tour duty, they longed for the day they’d return home, expecting life to resume where it had paused.

But coming home after any long absence can be tricky.

While the soldier stood center stage in another world, the play at home continued without them. Friendships shifted. Children grew older. Marriages strained or quietly disappeared. Parents aged. Neighborhoods changed. The familiar suddenly felt unfamiliar, and the script no longer matched the one they carried in their minds.

Perhaps hardest of all was that they weren’t taught how to stop being warriors.

The human mind is not a machine with a simple off switch. Hypervigilance, fear, grief, guilt, survival instincts, memories too terrible to explain — these things don’t vanish neatly once a uniform is folded and placed in a drawer. Some veterans spend decades trying to quiet battles no one else can see.

Our country carries a heartbreaking number of broken soldiers.

Sometimes we pass them without noticing. Sometimes we do notice them standing on street corners in cities across America, carrying backpacks instead of rifles, eyes distant and exhausted, still searching for solid ground beneath their feet. Haunted. Vexed. Unsure how to move forward in a world that keeps spinning while part of them remains trapped somewhere far away.

Not every wound bleeds openly.

This Memorial Day, honor not only those who died in service to our country, but also the living who still walk with what they saw.

Some gave their life in a single moment, while others continue to give pieces of their lives slowly over decades.

For some, the war never completely ends.

For those brave heroes and their families, send prayers for comfort and peace. Remember the sacrifices made so we can enjoy the freedoms we have.

Puppy Camp: A Very Important Discussion

Oliver: Are we going?

Tanner: We’re going.

Oliver: You’re sure?

Tanner: I heard the word “Puppy Camp.” That means we’re going.

Oliver: Puppy Camp sounds… promising.

Tanner: Puppy Camp sounds like friends.

Oliver: I like friends.

Tanner: You tolerate friends.

Oliver: I choose my friends carefully.

Tanner: You run at them full speed.

Oliver: That’s how I introduce myself.

Tanner: What do you think we should take?

Oliver: Everything.

Tanner: We can’t take everything.

Oliver: Then we take the important things.

Tanner: Like what?

Oliver: Snacks.

Tanner: Mom packed snacks.

Oliver: What kind of snacks?

Tanner: I saw the suitcase.

Oliver: You saw the suitcase?

Tanner: Mom’s hiding them in the room with the closed door.

Oliver: The closed door?

Tanner: The one we’re not allowed in.

Oliver: That’s suspicious.

Tanner: They’re in there for sure.

Oliver: Then we’re fine.

Oliver: Was it the afternoon Greenies?

Tanner: I think so.

Oliver: What about the chewy things?

Tanner: The ones we only get when we go away?

Oliver: Those.

Tanner: I’m pretty sure those are in there.

Oliver: Then we are definitely fine.

Oliver: Did you pack the bones?

Tanner: I thought you packed the bones.

Oliver: I was supervising.

Tanner: That means no one packed the bones.

Oliver: This is a problem.

Tanner: Maybe they have bones there.

(pause)

Oliver: They better have bones there.

Tanner: Should we take our beds?

Oliver: Absolutely.

(pause)

Tanner: Wait…

Oliver: What?

Tanner: Remember last time?

Oliver: …( Extremely long processing time for this one)

Tanner: Their beds are way better.

Oliver: Much better.

Tanner: Softer.

Oliver: Bigger.

Tanner: Warmer.

Oliver: We are not taking our beds.

Tanner: Do you think they’ll tell us bedtime stories?

Oliver: They told us bedtime stories last time.

Tanner: I liked that.

Oliver: I pretended not to like that.

Tanner: You fell asleep first.

Oliver: I was resting my eyes.

Tanner: I think this is going to be fun.

Oliver: I think this is going to be very fun.

Tanner: New friends.

Oliver: New snacks.

Tanner: New smells.

Oliver: So many smells.

Oliver: That’s Mom.

Tanner: And Dad.

Oliver: It’s time.

Tanner: Come on.

Oliver: Let’s go.

Tanner: We can’t miss out on the fun.

Oliver: Not a chance. We ARE the fun!!

🌿 From Winterpast

Oliver and Tanner are off to Puppy Camp today—an adventure filled with friends, stories, and (we hope) excellent snacks.

As for me, HHH and I will be stepping away for a short vacation and will return on May 25th.

Until then, enjoy your days—whether they’re filled with quiet, writing, or a little Puppy Camp of your own.

Packing, it turns out, isn’t just about deciding what to bring. It is about deciding who you will be for a little while. Creating the version of you that fits into a suitcase, walking lightly through days that are not yet written. Prepared, but not overly so.

Standing in the quiet of the room, I’ve collected my things on the bed. Not piles, exactly. More like small intentions. A soft sweater for cool mornings. A dress that feels like ease. And then, the shoes. Always the shoes.

I pause there longer than I should, because shoes carry more than outfits—they carry possibility. And every time, I reach for the black pumps. Reliable. Graceful. The one pair that seems to understand the assignment without needing explanation. Black pumps go with everything. They’re, perhaps, the only item that truly lives a double life—equally at home with denim or something finer, ready for whatever the day quietly asks. If there is such a thing as wisdom in a wardrobe, it might just be found in a simple pair of black shoes.

Then come the smaller things, the ones that don’t take much space but somehow hold the most weight. A necklace from HHH, resting lightly in my palm before it’s safely tucked away. I can already feel the comfort of it, the way it will sit against my skin like a quiet reminder of home. Crystal bangles from my mom—each one catching the light while carrying a history I don’t fully understand. And the beautiful hair adornments from Auntie Tj, delicate and just a little playful, as if she is reminding me not to take any of this too seriously.

These are the things that matter. Not the number of outfits or the careful folding, but the way each piece tells a story. The way they travel with me, not as objects, but as echoes of the people who have shaped this life.

By the time the suitcase closes, it feels less like I have packed for a trip and more like I have gathered a small, steady version of myself—one that can move forward, step by step, carrying love in the simplest of ways.

Just hours away, we’ll be on our way to another adventure. A little air. A little sea. Good food. New friends. Life at it’s most fun. Thank goodness we have good luggage, shoes, and attitudes for the journey ahead.

Thanks for spending time with me here at Winterpast. If you enjoy today’s post, there are many more posts in the archieve. Thank you for reading!

There are days at Winterpast that ask very little of me.

No wind demanding attention. No irrigation line bursting open. No squirrel declaring war on the garden. Just stillness. The kind that settles gently over everything and invites you to stay awhile.

Saturday was one of those days.

HHH had gone to play golf with his brothers—an outing filled with laughter, stories retold, and the easy rhythm of time spent together. I could picture it without being there. Men walking fairways, talking about everything and nothing, enjoying a day that didn’t need to be anything more than what it was.

And here, at home, I had something just as important to do.

I sat down to write.

The house was quiet in that particular way that only happens when you are alone but not lonely. Oliver and Tanner found their spots nearby, close enough to keep watch, far enough to stay out of trouble—for the moment.

Outside, the desert held its breath.

Inside, words began to move.

Not all at once. Not in a rush. Just slowly, like water finding its way across stone. A sentence here. A thought there. A memory stepping forward, asking to be noticed.

This is the kind of writing I love most.

Not forced. Not chased.

Just… found.

There is something sacred about a quiet day like this. No deadlines pressing. No expectations to meet. Just time. Time to listen. Time to remember. Time to shape something that didn’t exist when the day began.

By afternoon, the light shifted across the room, stretching long and golden. I realized I had been sitting there for hours, completely unaware of the clock.

That’s how you know it’s a good day.

Not because something grand happened.

But because something real did.

The words came.

And for me—

that’s always enough.

There are systems at Winterpast that no one ever fully explained to me as a new homeowner. After six years, we are still learning about them. They simply sit there, waiting quietly through the winter months, until the day they’re turned on and everything begins to speak at once.

Monday was that day.

We began our mission knowing just enough to be dangerous but not nearly enough to feel confident. The first box—what we’ve come to call the garage box—holds eight stations. Eight. Which sounds manageable until you realize each one carries its own mystery.

Stations one and two water the back lawn. Those we understand.

Three and four belong to the old front lawn—the one that no longer exists. Those remain off, quiet reminders of something that used to be.

Five… well, five introduced itself rather dramatically. A full gusher, with nothing attached. Water bubbling up as if it’d been waiting all winter for its moment. That one required immediate attention—and a bit of colorful language. It will remain off for the foreseeable future.

Six waters the handcrafted redwood flower boxes. All but one, of course. There is always one that refuses to follow the rules.

Seven waters the bed beneath the dove. The Japanese maple above her stands stripped bare from the late frost, its branches thin and exposed, offering no shade, no cover—yet still she sits. One egg beneath her, with no complaint or movement. Just staying.

And eight… eight does a little bit of everything. The mound, two trees, the sunflowers, the side trees, and one mysterious box out front that we will no doubt come to understand better in time.

Or not.

The second system is smaller, but no less opinionated. Three parts. One tends the vegetable garden, the flowers, and the front trees and bushes. Another works inside the yard. The last circles the outer rim of Winterpast, holding the edges together in its own quiet way.

We turned the water on and waited.

It did not take long.

A leak here. A split line there. Then another gusher—this one less dramatic, but equally determined to make its presence known. We stepped over hoses, turned valves, shut things down, and turned them back on again. Adjusting. Watching. Listening.

It turns out water has a language, and at Winterpast, we are just beginning to understand it.

Today, without too much argument, most of the sprinklers on the garage box are working again. Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough to feel like progress had been made and to believe that, with time, this maze will make sense.

Everything will now be on a schedule.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

Above it all, the dove remains. Still. Steady. Watching our chaos without joining it. The dogs, in a rare moment of agreement, have decided to let her be. A small mercy in a world where not everything is gentle.

Not everything, of course.

We did suffer another squirrel attack.

Gone are the baby basil and thyme. Ripped clean from the ground, as if they had never been planted at all. The war continues, as it always does out here. Quiet battles fought at dawn and dusk, victories rarely ours.

My whimsical brain can’t help but wonder what the vermin cooked for his dinner last night.

And still… we go on.

Little by little, the water is following its paths.

And little by little, so are we.

Thank you for visiting me today. Please come back Monday for more fantastical stories from Winterpast.