Mildew and baby robins don’t seem to belong in the same story.
One quietly steals beauty.
The other arrives carrying it.
And yet, both showed up at Winterpast this week.
Of course, the mildew came first.
After months of unpredictable weather, HHH was finally beginning to believe his beloved roses might have a chance. The bushes were healthy. Tiny buds had begun to appear. Perhaps spring had finally decided to arrive.
But something wasn’t right. Looking closer, he spotted it.
Powdery mildew.
Not on one rose.
Not on a few roses.
On every rose bush.
Every. Single. One.
The buds continued to grow, as the leaves were covered by that destructive white coating gardeners dread. I watched the disappointment settle across his face. Anyone who grows roses knows they are more than plants. They are hope wrapped in petals. They are anticipation. They are promises of beauty waiting to bloom.
Instead of enjoying armloads of June blossoms, we’ve found ourselves purchasing expensive rose food that promises to rid us of the problem. Of course, HHH also spent hours carefully spraying every bush with Neem oil just to be safe.
Honestly, I don’t think we spend that much money on medicine for ourselves.
The rose bushes are strong plants and will recover. We know that. But healing takes time.
And a lot of patience.
A few hours later, while HHH tended sick roses, I wrote at my desk, and life offered a completely different lesson.
Above the patio on a wide beam, there was constant movement in full view of the desk.
First, two parents building their nest.
Then, a patient mama protecting her eggs while keeping them at just the right temperature.
Soon, baby robins.
Last year, several of them perched together on a similar nest, looking as though they had been assembled moments before. Their feathers were fluffy and unfinished. Their tails seemed too short. Their expressions curious and confused.
Oliver noticed them too.
He sat beneath the beam, watching intently.
Not because he wanted to chase them. Oliver is long past such ambitions. Instead, he looked upward with great interest, as if waiting for someone to drop a snack.
Above him, Momma Robin sat nearby keeping watch. She seemed entirely unimpressed by Oliver’s hopes and completely focused on caring for her young.
The babies waited.
Oliver waited.
Momma Robin waited.
Last year, Oliver won.
What is it about this dreadful year in the garden? The mother dove chose a perfectly good Japanese Maple in which to build her nest. A late frost made the leaves fall as if it were October. She was exposed to wind and rain, finally losing her battle to protect her eggs.
The robins chose a safe place next to the house before the temperatures changed again. Today it will be in the 90’s, and there in the afternoon sun, she’ll suffer through. With over 30 trees to choose from, some in the front yard beyond Oliver’s reach, she chose that space. Hopefully, this year, the chicks will survive.
As evening settled across Winterpast, I found myself thinking about those roses and those robins.
One was a reminder that beautiful things sometimes become damaged.
The other is proof that beautiful things keep arriving anyway.
That seems to be how life works.
Grief and joy.
Loss and love.
Mildew and baby robins.
One season brings disappointment. Another brings healing. Sometimes they arrive on the very same day.
As a naive girl, I believed happiness would come when all the problems disappeared. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, when nothing broke, nothing leaked, nothing died, and no mildew dared touch a rose.
Life has gently corrected that misunderstanding.
A good life isn’t the absence of difficulties.
It is learning to notice the baby robins while treating the mildew.
The roses will heal.
The robins will fly.
Oliver will continue hoping for falling snacks.
And here at Winterpast, another ordinary day will quietly become a memory worth keeping.
All that is enough.
Mildew and baby robins don’t seem to belong in the same story.
One is soft, hopeful, and fluffy enough to make your heart melt.
Writing is Life