Grieving Gardener

As more leaves begin to fall, it’s undeniable. Summer is winding down, and autumn is just around the corner. After the relentless heat of only a few weeks ago, we can finally open the windows at night and enjoy the evening breeze. Of course, last week it was the Zephyr Winds blowing through, but that isn’t every night. Weather in the desert can be very random.

As for the roses, they continue to surprise me. Happy Go Lucky has been rather quiet during the heat, but she is getting ready to explode in yellow blooms. The Grand Dame is reaching for the sky. Independence Day is giving it her best. And the only Tequila Sunrise in our garden is absolutely flaming with coral blooms. Bliss is blissful. The bush roses are covered in buds and blossoms, as though they have all decided there is still plenty of time for one more show before the season ends.

Not to be outdone, the chrysanthemums are full and getting ready to explode with blossoms of their own.

The tomatoes, on the other hand, are withering away. They’ve done their job.

The anise is doing its best to get some recognition from the back of the garden, while nearly everything else seems determined to give us one last hurrah.

Perhaps that’s why I love this time of year so much. The garden isn’t finished. It just knows its time is getting short. There is something about these last blooms that makes them seem even more beautiful than the first. In spring, I expect flowers. I’ve waited all winter for them.

But these?

These are gifts.

They arrive after months of blazing sun, relentless heat, watering, trimming, feeding and wondering whether some poor plant is going to make it through another Nevada summer. And then September arrives. Suddenly, something that looked exhausted a few weeks ago is covered with buds.

There is always a sigh of relief at this time of year for desert gardeners. We made it. The plants made it. And perhaps best of all, we can finally expect our water bills to begin their seasonal decline.

Thank goodness.

This August wasn’t nearly as brutal as some we’ve experienced, and I am grateful for that. Still, there comes a point every summer when I’m ready to stop fighting the heat and welcome something different.

Apparently, the stores agree. Halloween displays have already appeared at Lowe’s. Boxes of artificial Christmas trees sit in the empty garden center.

The Burners are on the road home.

Leaves are beginning to fall.

The windows are open at night.

And the roses are putting on one last magnificent show.

Bring it on.

Because as beautiful as spring can be, I think the desert saves something special for the end. The last really may be the best.

It doesn’t get much better than autumn in the desert.

Burning Man is a wrap for another year.

For the life of me, I still don’t understand the annual pilgrimage through the desert to meet up on the playa. Thousands upon thousands of people travel from all over the world to spend days living on a dry lakebed in the Nevada desert. This year was no different.

Last week, we had days of 50-mile-per-hour winds raging across the desert, carrying dust finer than baker’s flour. That dust finds every crease, every cranny, every zipper, every vehicle, every tent and every single thing unfortunate enough to be standing in its path.

Then came the rains, which are now apparently considered monsoonal. I’m not sure when that happened, or why someone decided the word seemed appropriate. We live in the desert. It rains sometimes. Apparently now we have monsoons.

Burning Man affects our little town perhaps more than any other along the route, with the exception of Gerlach itself. We know when the Burners have arrived. The bottled water begins disappearing from the shelves—hundreds of gallons at a time. Walmart is ravaged. So much packaging is removed and discarded before people head onto the playa that extra dumpsters are brought in to handle it.

Restaurants fill.

Gas stations fill.

And then there are the people.

The wonderful oddity of the people passing through is never lost on the residents.

Did you see that?

What was that?

Who was that?

There always seems to be a that involved—something unfamiliar, unexpected and decidedly foreign to our sweet little town.

For a short time every year, two completely different worlds collide here in the Nevada desert. They come through with their bicycles and supplies, extraordinary vehicles, costumes, art, and enough water to survive on a dry lakebed. We watch the parade go by, sometimes amused, sometimes bewildered, and occasionally wondering what on earth we just saw.

Then, almost as quickly as they arrived, they’re gone. The shelves recover. The restaurants quiet down. The dumpsters disappear. Traffic returns to normal. And our little town becomes our little town again.

It’s a strange relationship between them and us. One I haven’t quite figured out yet. Maybe I never will. But there is something rather wonderful about watching people so completely committed to doing something I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to do.

So, bye-bye, Burners. Burning Man 2026 is history.

Safe travels home. We’ll see you next year.

And we’ll try to remember to buy our bottled water before you get here.

There is something wonderful about living in a peaceful home.

Not a perfect home. Not a home where nothing ever goes wrong. Not a home without disappointments, worries, dirty dishes, unexpected bills, a barking dog, or dust bunnies multiplying under the furniture.

Just a peaceful home.

HHH and I value peace tremendously. We strive for it in our marriage, in our home, and in the way we choose to live our lives. We don’t always get everything right, but we agree on something that has become increasingly important to both of us: No Drama.

Life brings enough difficulty all by itself. There is no reason to invite unnecessary turmoil through the front door and give it a comfortable chair.

The Bible speaks beautifully about the Fruits of the Spirit: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I have always loved those words. But the longer I live, the more I understand that they aren’t simply a beautiful list of qualities to admire. They are cornerstones.

Love asks us to look beyond ourselves.

Joy reminds us to notice what is still good.

Peace allows our hearts to rest.

Patience asks us to wait without demanding that everything happen according to our timetable.

Kindness costs very little and can change someone’s entire day.

Goodness guides the choices we make when no one else is watching.

Faithfulness keeps us steady.

Gentleness reminds us that strength doesn’t have to be loud.

And self-control sometimes means knowing when to speak, when to remain quiet, when to engage, and when to simply walk away.

That last one may be one of life’s more difficult lessons.

Peace does not mean agreeing with everyone. It doesn’t mean allowing others to treat us badly. And it certainly doesn’t mean that difficult things never happen. It does require boundaries and requires forgiveness. Sometimes it requires accepting that we cannot change another person. And sometimes peace comes when we finally understand that we don’t have to participate in every argument we’re invited to.

At Winterpast, HHH and I have worked to make our home a place where we can close the door at the end of the day and simply be.

We laugh.

We talk.

We sit quietly.

We enjoy our home and garden. We make plans for tomorrow. We share the ordinary pieces of life that, when added together, become something quite extraordinary. There is comfort in knowing that home is a safe place to land. We don’t take that gift for granted.

God has granted us peace in our lives, and we are deeply thankful for it. That peace is something we have a responsibility to protect. The world will always have noise. Other people will always have opinions. There will always be situations beyond our control. But we are the only ones who can decide what we allow to live within our own hearts and within the walls of our home.

One of the beautiful things about the Fruits of the Spirit is that they begin inside us. We cannot demand love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, or self-control from everyone around us. We can only ask God to grow those things within us. When He does, something remarkable happens. Home is the best place of all to be.

We are so blessed to call Winterpast home.

Have a great weekend. I’ll be back on Monday.

Is it ever too early to begin fall cleaning? With the last few weeks of summer bringing a new book, smoky skies, and summer fires, I’m declaring war on the dust bunnies.

For months, while I sat at the computer, they multiplied as bunnies tend to do. At this point, they are completely out of control. It’s time for bunny eradication.

I learned my cleaning methods from the best. My German mother was a taskmaster when it came to keeping her house the cleanest of clean. For years, she had five little housekeepers-in-training to help her do the job.

Later in life, while working as a professional housekeeper, I had the rare treat of polishing that training by another German woman, Miss Emilie. Her house was the cleanest house I have ever seen. Even the tops of her shiny wooden hangers were dusted each week.

I will confess something right now.

I don’t own wooden hangers. But even if I did, they would not be dusted each week. That was simply over the top for the Queen of Clean.

Still, there are plenty of things around my own house that do need attention.

Windows and screens need to be washed, inside and out. Furniture needs to be moved so the forgotten world underneath can be rediscovered and cleaned. Everything needs dusting—the tops, middles, bottoms, backs, and places no one normally looks.

Pictures need wiping. Mirrors need polishing. Cha-chas need washing. Closets need attention. Baseboards need investigating. And the dust bunnies need to understand that their lease has expired.

Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera.

The easiest way to tackle a big seasonal cleaning is to make a plan and stick with it. My own plan takes several weeks as I work through the house one room at a time. There is no need to tear the entire house apart in one exhausting weekend.

Choose a room.

Finish it.

Then move on to the next.

Fall is a wonderful time to begin. The windows can be opened while the weather is still pleasant, summer dust can be sent on its way, and the house can slowly be made ready for the quieter months ahead.

So, the war on dust begins here at Winterpast.

One room at a time.

And those dust bunnies had better start running.

This month, the world lost a true Princess.

Sweet, kind, and thoughtful, she reigned with the most beautiful brown eyes that watched all and made sure her every wish was fulfilled.

We lost our beloved Tanner on August 13th.

Dogs are funny sometimes. They can tell you so much without the use of a human voice. In so many ways, Tanner told us it was time for her to go to the Rainbow Bridge. There was no choice but to let her run free to the Rainbow Bridge..

The first sign that something was wrong came last November, when we found a lump. It was quickly removed. Only seven months later, another appeared. It, too, was removed. But in only six weeks, the new lump was inoperable. Three days after the diagnosis, with a low tail and sad eyes, she told us it was time.

Tanner was only five years and five months old.

She was the only dog I’ve ever known who smiled when something was really funny. Not a circus trick, but a real smile.

She loved to observe her pets (us) with her petite legs crossed in the way only she could do. She gave hugs back when you needed them—and gave them when you didn’t even know you did.

She ran like the wind and loved watching TV, especially if there just happened to be a handsome German Shepherd on the screen.

We loved her with all our hearts.

And, we loved her enough to let her go before she got any worse.

Miss Tanner Girl, run free.

We’ll meet you at the Rainbow Bridge someday.

We love you.

There are some people so rich and wonderful in spirit and voice that they simply stand shoulders above everyone else. They enter your life, take up residence there, and somehow you know there will never be another quite like them.

I knew such a woman for decades.

She was—and remains—the Goddess of the Central Coast.

At 94, she still took enormous pride in driving her original-owner convertible. Always clean and shiny, as you would expect for the car of a Goddess. Just months ago, she renewed her driver’s license all the way to her 97th birthday.

And drive she did. Right to the end. Safely, I might add.

When she wasn’t motoring up and down California’s Central Coast, she kept herself very well informed about current events. She had opinions. Oh, did she have opinions. She was intelligent, interested, curious, and completely engaged with the world around her.

And Grieving Gardener was definitely part of her life.

My blog went with her coffee and breakfast.

Any unexplained absence from my writing was likely to be met with a telephone call asking exactly why I thought I needed time away. Apparently, writers shouldn’t take vacations when the Goddess required reading material with her morning coffee. I tried to give her ample time to make another selection when I was away.

And if I happened to drift too far from her opinion of what a proper lady ought to write?

She set me back on course.

At first, she tried to correct my grammar.

We had to have a little talk about a writer’s voice.

That took care of that.

Mostly.

She was kind, considerate, stern, elegant, funny, and remarkably smart. She was a woman from another time who nevertheless kept up beautifully with this one.

For the last two decades, she lived as a widow in the cliffside home she and her husband bought so many years before, overlooking the blue Pacific.

Timeless and elegant.

Just like her.

Over the years, our visits became treasures. And in these last years, something especially lovely happened: my husband, Billy, fell in love with the Goddess, too.

And she fell in love with him.

Billy had the privilege of making two Valentine’s dinners for her. For the last three Valentine’s Days, we arrived with a single red rose for the Goddess. Just last February, she received a dozen peach roses from a special admirer. Her tree surgeon. She touched hearts everywhere.

A few months ago, this fiercely private woman did something extraordinary.

She invited us to stay with her.

She did not invite people into that inner part of her life easily. We knew what the invitation meant.

We belonged.

Last Thursday, at 94 years old, after enjoying her breakfast, the Goddess of the Central Coast settled in her favorite chair beside her blue Pacific and quietly passed away.

There is something terribly sad and yet wonderfully fitting about that. She was home. In her chair. In the house she loved. Beside the ocean that had been the backdrop to her life for more than fifty years.

Now the practical things begin.

Rooms will empty, doors will close, and eventually, someone else will look through those windows at the Pacific.

Her street will become just another street in Cambria, California.

But I don’t believe the Goddess will go quite so easily.

Some people leave quite a mark on this world.

If you happen to find yourself on the Central Coast, listen carefully.

You might hear a radio playing her favorite station through an open window.

You might hear the rumble of her convertible rolling down Highway 1 toward a hair appointment in San Simeon.

You might even imagine a very proper lady sitting down with her coffee and breakfast, opening Grieving Gardener, and preparing to let its writer know exactly what she thinks.

And somewhere, I suspect, there will always be one red rose waiting for her.

You are so missed, our beloved Goddess.

Heaven is lucky to have you.

For the past six years, I have been quietly writing my thoughts at GrievingGardener.com. As a new widow, I found writing to be an outlet during the COVID quarantine. It became an elixir of voice and grief that helped me through the worst days.

In the beginning, almost every early morning found me writing my thoughts and hitting “send.” At first, I didn’t know how to add pictures or videos. I just knew I had a story to tell. In the wee hours of every day, I poured my heart out on the screen while Oliver slept at my feet.

I hoped at least one other widow might find comfort in my words. Slowly, my tribe formed. Some were so interested, they would contact me if I missed a day. Friendships grew as I found my path toward healing.

Some of my posts were raw and heartbreaking, while others were downright shocking. It didn’t matter. If I had something to say, I said it. This helped me find a way back to my true self.

Since I first held my pencil in kindergarten, I’ve been a writer. With so much to say and not always many people to listen, I made pen and paper my friends. A safe place free from judgment or interruption of thought. My very own wonderful playground of words.

Over the past four months, I’ve been gathering and arranging those words into book form.

What an adventure.

From the first thought of a book to the moment I clicked the button to request a proof copy, there were hundreds of decisions along the way. Writing. Revising. Formatting. Pictures. Page numbers. Covers. Blank pages. More corrections than I ever imagined could exist in a single book.

And now, it is real. Four hardbound books sit on the coffee table. Banded with “Not for Resale”, my name is on every one. Already, the cover isn’t exactly the right shade. There are minor corrections. The illustrations need adjusting. As they call out for help, as every proof does, they also confirm it. I am a published author.

Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be available for purchase on Amazon on November 11, 2026.

To say I’m proud of it is an understatement. To hold my own story in book form is an unbelievable feeling. But pride or money weren’t the driving force behind my need to write.

My true hope is that one person in grief will find something useful in these pages. One sentence could make a hard day easier. The reassurance that someone else understands might comfort an aching heart.

Am I a counselor? No. Is this book meant as therapy? No.

It’s my story to tell. And I’m telling it to anyone who wants to sit for a while to read it.

Because, if I made the journey to a better day, you can too.

Not all at once.

Just one step at a time.

Keep walking.

Keep believing.

Follow your heart.

Your own journey will take you where you need to be.

Dear Friends,

For over six years, I’ve had the privilege of welcoming you to Winterpast almost every weekday. Together we’ve walked through grief, healing, laughter, gardens, hummingbirds, road trips, seasons of life, and the quiet moments that often teach us the most.

Today, I need to do something I don’t do very often.

I’m taking a short August sabbatical.

Sometimes life reminds us that even the writer needs a little time to refill the well. Rather than trying to force words onto a page, I’ve decided to spend the remainder of August working quietly behind the scenes.

What will I be doing?

I’ll be polishing older blog posts, improving SEO so more readers can find the stories already written, and sharing many of those favorites on Pinterest. Most importantly, I’ll be putting my heart into preparing my memoir, Widow: A Journey Toward Life, for its November publication. It’s an exciting season, and one that deserves my full attention.

Thank you for your kindness, your encouragement, and for making this little corner of the internet feel like home. Your comments, prayers, emails, and friendship have meant far more than you know.

I plan to return on Monday, August 31, refreshed, inspired, and ready to begin another season of stories from Winterpast.

Until then, may your gardens bloom, your hearts find peace, and your days be filled with the simple blessings that make life beautiful.

With gratitude,

Joy McIntyre
The Grieving Gardener
Where new life grows from grief

Lessons From the Watering Hose

The water bill arrived yesterday.

A collective groan could probably be heard from every gardener across the high desert. During August, opening the water bill is a little like opening a medical bill. You know it isn’t going to be good.

This month, our water bill is more than my very first house payment. Granted, that house payment was in 1977, but still. It seems outrageous.

I’ve often wondered exactly when they read the water meter. There aren’t meter readers running through the neighborhood carrying clipboards anymore. Sometimes I suspect they simply look at last month’s bill, double it, and mail it out.

According to our statement, we’ve used over 40,000 gallons of water this month. Forty thousand. I’ll simply take their word for it because there isn’t much point in arguing. Around here, the choices are fairly simple: pay the bill… or don’t get water.

Neither option feels especially satisfying.

Living on the high desert means accepting one simple truth. Water isn’t a luxury. It’s survival. Every green leaf, every rose, every tomato, every tree, and every blade of grass depends upon it. Miss a few days during August, and the garden lets you know immediately. Leaves droop. Flowers fade. The soil hardens. Life begins to struggle.

People aren’t all that different.

Some seem to need very little encouragement. They bloom almost anywhere. Others have lived through droughts we know nothing about. Their roots are shallow because life has been difficult. They need a little more kindness, a little more patience, a little more reassurance before they begin to flourish again.

I’ve also noticed that every plant drinks differently. The roses seem forever thirsty. The Japanese maple asks quietly for a long, slow soak. The lavender is perfectly happy with much less. Give it too much water, and it actually suffers. Tomatoes practically cheer when the hose comes their way, while the cactus rolls its eyes as if to say, “I’m fine. Move along.”

God must smile at His garden of people.

Some of us need words of encouragement every day. Others are strengthened by quiet acts of service. Some grow best surrounded by friends, while others need long stretches of peaceful solitude. None of us were designed exactly alike.

The trick isn’t giving everyone the same amount of water.

The trick is learning what helps each person grow.

Perhaps that means listening more carefully. Offering forgiveness a little sooner. Giving grace when someone seems unusually short-tempered. Checking on a lonely neighbor. Sending a note. Sharing a meal. Sitting quietly beside someone who simply needs to know they aren’t alone.

The funny thing about watering is that it rarely produces instant results. You don’t water a rose this morning and expect dozens of blooms by sunset. Growth takes time. Healthy roots develop slowly, one day after another, one careful watering at a time.

People are much the same. The kindness you offer today may not bloom for months. The encouragement you give someone may carry them through a season you’ll never know about. A simple smile may be exactly what another heart needed that day.

So yes, I’ll grumble just a little when next month’s water bill arrives.

Then I’ll pick up the hose once again.

Some things are simply worth watering.

There comes a point in life when we realize something important: we can’t go back. Not to childhood, not to yesterday, not to the people we used to be, and not even to the happiest moments we wish we could relive. Life simply doesn’t work that way.

For the longest time, I thought healing meant understanding every moment of my past, finding every answer, and untangling every knot. Over time, I’ve discovered that peace wasn’t waiting for me back there.

It was waiting here, in the garden, in laughter as Tanner and Oliver chased one another through the morning grass, in a cup of coffee on the porch before sunrise, and in a new rose opening for the very first time. The present is where life happens.

Of course, our memories matter. The people we have loved matter. The lessons we learned matter. They are woven into the fabric of who we are. But there is a difference between visiting the past and living there.

The ghosts of yesterday have a way of demanding our attention. They whisper about old regrets, painful conversations, missed opportunities, broken relationships, and things we wish had turned out differently. If we invite those ghosts to move in, they will rearrange the furniture of our hearts until joy can’t find a place to sit.

Today, I choose to acknowledge them politely and then return to watering my roses.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that hobbies aren’t just pleasant little extras. They are lifelines. Plant a garden. Write the story only you can tell. Learn watercolor painting. Build birdhouses. Restore an old car. Play the piano. Travel somewhere you have always dreamed of seeing. Volunteer. Bake bread. Take photographs. Read books that stretch your imagination. Do something that makes your heart quietly whisper, This is who I am.

Who knows how many summers remain?

Life is far too precious to waste a moment. We were created to keep growing, learning, laughing, and creating beautiful things. Every morning offers a fresh invitation. Every hour presents another opportunity to notice something lovely. Every minute is a gift we will never receive again.

So enrich your life. Cultivate interests that make you excited to get out of bed. Fill your calendar with moments instead of misery. Surround yourself with people who leave your soul lighter than when they found it. Forgive often. Smile easily.

Ditch the drama that steals your peace.

When the ghosts of the past come knocking, you don’t have to pretend they never existed. Don’t slam the door, but don’t open it wide enough for them to move in. Thank them for the lessons, then gently close the door. Life isn’t waiting for you back there. It is blooming right here, right now.

At Winterpast, I see that lesson every morning. Yesterday’s blossoms have already faded. Tomorrow’s buds haven’t opened yet. But today’s flowers are putting on a spectacular show, and I don’t want to miss a single one.