Sandbox Garden

When we moved about a year and a half ago, we did so because we wanted to find our “forever home” before our daughter started elementary school.  It was important to us that we give her the chance to grow up with the friends she would make at school and not have to go through the experience of leaving her best buds if at all possible.   Obviously there were other factors we had to consider as well, but that one certainly drove the timing of our decision to move.   

One of the things I was looking for in a new home was a larger yard where I could stretch my gardening wings a bit more.  I wanted a yard big enough to allow my gardening interests to flourish but still coexist with a child’s inalienable right to play.  I wanted room for a collection of Japanese maples and a Wiffle ball field.  I wanted a yard big enough to grow watermelons in and to lay out a slip-n-slide at the same time.  In short, I wanted a little slice of Americana.    

So when I saw the sandbox beneath the fruitless mulberry tree - the same mulberry tree that had wooden steps nailed into the trunk and ropes hung from a sturdy limb to support a swing, I thought for sure that I had found a yard that would work for both me and my daughter.   

I took this picture on the day of the home inspection.  You can see the swing at left.
I think the yard, in general, looks really different already.

In the months since we moved in, my girl has climbed those wooden planks several times and stood inside the canopy of the mulberry tree.  She’s marveled at the new world from up there and she’s decided that living in a tree house would be “so cool”.  She’s also begged me to find a swing to hang from those ropes too.  A request I have tried and failed to fulfill.  But she never got interested in the sandbox like I thought she would.  Maybe it was the more than occasional cat poop we found.  Or the omnipresent spiders.  Maybe it was the hardened sand, the constant leaf litter, or the fact that she’s already too old for sandboxes . . . if there is such a thing as being too old for sandboxes.  She just didn’t seem to care about it one way or another which was amazing to me because I was a kid that spent days on end in a sandbox.    

On the Saturday before Father’s day, I found myself standing outside, just soaking things in; plotting my next steps.  After my eyes kept stopping on my own misplaced clutter, I determined it was past time to find places for the things I had brought from the old house.  First and foremost was the fountain my wife gave me when I turned 30 a year or two ago . . . give or take the better part of a decade.  Since the move, the fountain had been left out of the way and unfilled under the mulberry tree just because I didn’t have anywhere else to put it.  I would need the fountain to be close to an electrical outlet for the pump.  I would need level ground.  And I wanted it be away from the house because I had learned through experience that it tends to splash and leave hard water stains which are as hard to get rid of as glitter on your skin. 

Tangent: I overheard a guy say to his girlfriend in a craft store a few months ago “Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies.”  I’m pretty sure he adopted that line from a comedian, but I gave him due credit for making me laugh anyway.   

Given that one of the three outside outlets in our backyard is just feet from the sandbox it quickly dawned on me that the sandbox would be an ideal location.  But what would my little girl say to that?  I have seen her, several times, suddenly proclaim her rekindled affection for a toy or stuffed animal only after we decided to donate it to Good Will.  Would she suddenly have a hankering for sand castles or for finally embarking upon her long-planned digging expedition to China through the center of the earth?

The gap in the sidewalk was just wide enough to run the cord AND drip irrigation tubing.  Score!

I drilled a small hole at the base of the sandbox for the wiring and irrigation.

Clearly I was going to have to run it by her and get her buyoff.  So I asked her point blank, “are you gonna play in that thing ever again?” or something similarly eloquent.  And she said, basically, “of course not, Daddy.  I’m a more grown-up big-little-kid and I would prefer to do more productive and creative things with my time.”  So, with her permission, and with her help, we started digging out the sand.  It took a surprising amount of time since I didn’t just want to throw the sand away.  I could use the sand to level the pavers I had haphazardly placed as a walkway around the corner of the house.  So as we dug out the sandbox we also leveled the pavers (in the picture below).  That took us most of the afternoon - a long time to ask a 6-year-old to help you in the yard - but the two of us had a lot of fun working together especially since some of that work was just looking at the bugs that fled their homes when we unearthed them.

The smaller square rocks were leftover from a Tic Tac Toe game (using river rocks) that didn't get much use
after the first year so I repurposed them here.  They could use a cleaning, but I'm otherwise happy with the look.

On Father’s Day, after being spoiled with breakfast and coffee delivered to my lazy butt on the couch, my daughter accompanied me to the “rock store” (basically a quarry with a nursery attached to it) so we could buy a smooth paver to use as a base for the fountain.  Then we went to the nursery to pick out plants for our new sandbox garden. 

I took her to the shade plants section and basically said, “Anything you want we can get”.  She chose a couple good looking coleus plants and I picked a few ferns.   And together we planted them around the fountain.  One of the coleus plants lost a limb on the drive home so I showed her how we could put it into some water and it would grow roots of its own.  This was amazing to her (frankly, it’s amazing to me too).  As we worked side by side I got to listen to her daydream aloud about how we could sell coleus plants to people at a lemonade and flower stand. 

Our first "new" coleus is doing just fine.

We took cuttings from the other two types we bought and put them in a window sill in my man cave.

As far as Father’s Days goes, this last one was pretty great.  I am lucky to be a father and to get to spend time with my family.  And part of my fortune, I realized, is getting to see the world through the eyes of a child and discovering that it’s not always going to look the way I think it’s going to.  Sometimes that world is going to look like lemonade stands and plant sales instead of sandboxes.  And you can find happiness in either one.
  

A few shots of the new "sandbox garden":

Planted with asparagus ferns 'Myers', Japanese Spurge (Pachysandra terminalis), Silver Lady Fern (Blechnum gibbum), Coleus blumei 'Electric Lime', Coleua blumei 'Rustic Orange', and Coleus blumei 'Crimson Gold'.

One Of Those Hot Nights

It got hot here this week.  It was at least 92/93 degrees today which is right on the border of misery.  But hot days often make for pleasant evenings in Sacramento.  Tonight is one of those nights.  After we finished dinner and did the dishes I was drawn to the window by the sound of a couple mourning doves on one of the wires stretching from the telephone pole to our house.

I must have spooked them because they flew off and perched on another wire farther away.  I think they can get a better view of the sunset from these wires anyway.

While standing at the window gawking at the birds like I'd never seen flying creatures before, I realized that the setting sun made everything look better.  I grabbed my camera and went out to see if I could capture the feeling (I couldn't, but the following pictures were my attempt):

Acer palmatum 'Bloodgood' - one of the most ubiquitous Japanese Maples 

I've had this 'Bloodgood' maple for years.  It was the first one I ever bought and I have abused, neglected, and mistreated this fella since Day 1.  I even removed about half of the tree this very spring.  One day I just felt like pruning stuff and I took a "what doesn't kill you will make you stronger" approach with this tree.  And if it died? Oh well.

And yet here it is, shining in the sunlight for me to enjoy as if I hadn't totally insulted it.

Looking just to the left of the Bloodgood, you can see the borrowed view of our neighbor's mature trees.  You can also see multiple power lines, cable lines and who knows what other kinds of lines those are.  It's a shame that our homes need to have these visual monstrosities in order for us to do things like blog on the internet.  But the greens, the reds, and the golden sunshine help distract from the wires if only for a few minutes.

Rosa 'Mr. Lincoln'

At the other end of the yard. the sun's rays had already gone behind the trees.  But I was captivated by the juxtaposition of the red rose petals against the weathered fence boards.  If I wanted to get all poetic here, I'd make an analogy about how two of the blooms have clearly passed their prime.  They are setting suns at the end of their path.  But the third bloom is still just a promise.  It has yet to open, it has yet to shine.  That bloom is like tomorrow's sun.  But I don't want to get all poetic.

Fall Fest at the IGC

My favorite nursery is a locally owned Independent Garden Center (IGC) called Green Acres.  They have three locations and a fourth one in the plans which is quite a testament when you consider how many other nurseries have had to close shop in the last several years due to the economy and competition from larger stores like Home Depot and Lowes.  I'm not a Big Box basher by any means but a few years ago I pledged that I would only buy plants and related products from IGCs.  I still by tools, lumber, bricks, and Christmas lights at Home Depot though.

One of the reasons I made this pledge was because IGCs and other locally-owned businesses contribute to the quality of my life in ways that publicly owned companies cannot.  The 2013 Fall Festival put on by Green Acres is Exhibit A.

My daughter enjoying her scary balloon.

I suppose Home Depot could put something like this together. I know they have Saturday morning workshops for parents and their kids and a friend of mine takes his daughter often.  But this Fall Festival was on another scale entirely.

We left before the stage was used.  I was afraid it would involve a scarecrow strip tease.

The pumpkin bowling, mini golf and duck races were put on by American River College horticulture students.  This is a great volunteer opportunity as well as a chance for the students to spend some time "in the trenches" and get a taste for what it would be like to work in the retail side of their field.

Pumpkin bowling.
This is a much different version of the game me and my hooligan friends played as kids.

Mini-golf course using fresh sod, jack-o-lanterns and some bender board.  Ingenious.

In addition to the games, there were balloon makers and face painters making kids' days for free.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

 And, of course, there were pumpkins and gourds galore.

There were also some educational opportunities for us including some of information on the Sacramento Bee Keepers association (I think that's what they called themselves).  When we first walked up to the bees I started talking to my daughter about them and I was shocked to discover that she knew more about them than I did.  She knew, for instance, that all the bees we were looking at were females.  Apparently the male drones get kicked to the curb much earlier in the season and quickly die from exposure.  So this time of year it's just the Queen Bee and her workers in the hive.  I guess I've been away from school too long.

All these bees are chicks.

I got to sample a few different types of honey from areas close to here.  It was remarkable how different the texture and taste was when the distance separating these hives was less than 10 miles.

They had sno-cones, cotton candy, and drinks too.  All free.

My favorite part of the morning, however, was when my little girl decided she wanted to take a turn taking pictures of the plants.  I think I've got a future garden blogger in my midst.

My little photo bug.

Going in for the macro shot.

Of course, occasions like this aren't the only good reason to spend 100% of my gardening dollars at IGCs.  But I would really miss this type of thing if Green Acres went out of business.  And how do you put a price on the opportunity to make memories like these?

Leaving My Garden

I have taken some time off from blogging the last few weeks.  As we entered into escrow on our house, the desire to continue to cultivate my garden waned.  Besides, there was work to be done.  There were boxes to build, fill, and tape closed.  We held a garage sale - an event I don't think I'll repeat until the next time I move.  We went shopping for new appliances, called the county about switching our utilities, and worked with the cable company to get us set up right away.

Last night was our first night in the new house and there is still a great deal of work to be done before this place even begins to feel like something close to home.  It's a weird time in our lives.  The place that had been our home for more than a decade is empty except for a few brooms, a mop, and some dog hair we still need to vacuum up.  It doesn't look or feel much like our home anymore.  But this new house is filled to the brim with boxes with suddenly cryptic markings on the outside.  When you move into a three-bedroom home, simply writing "Bedroom" on the side of a box isn't actually that helpful.  It's also a good idea to decide ahead of time which room you and your spouse are going to call the living room and which is the family room.  

I think because there was so much work to do I was able to shut off a lot of my emotions related to moving. I couldn't finish what needed to be done if I allowed myself to wallow in nostalgia.  I don't think I realized this until I took my daughter over to the old house today to check the mail and pick up a few things the movers missed.  We walked around the backyard together.  She noticed the 'Snow Fountains' weeping cherry tree in the corner of the yard.  How could she not?  It had burst into bloom in the last few days and was now a shower of white.

I planted that tree in her honor the week after she was born and I took every opportunity I had to tell her that it was her tree.  I don't think she realized until then that the tree hadn't been taken to our new house.  She asked me why not.  "The new owners expect us to leave all the trees in the ground where they were sow we could only take the trees that were in pots."  She seemed to accept this answer so I went back to looking for overlooked pot risers while she meandered.  Because I was preoccupied I didn't see what she was looking at, I didn't notice the looks on her face, or register the change in her body language.  But when I finally took my eyes off the ground and saw her, I knew something wasn't right.  She had her hands in her pockets, she was standing as close to the far wall of the house as she could without actually touching it, she was looking so small in that empty yard.

"What's the matter, Sweetheart?" I asked her.

"Now I won't have a tree anymore, Daddy."  And then she cried and fell into my outstretched arms.  I felt her little body shake with sorrow.  I felt her arms tighten around my neck as if holding on tighter was the only thing that could make the sadness go away.  I think that I could have said something right away to cheer her up.  But it felt like she just needed to be sad for a few minutes.  And I needed to be reminded that no matter how busy we get, no matter how businesslike life becomes, that we are still emotional beings and a good cry once in a while is exactly what we need most.

I once heard someone say that if someone needs to hug you to get some comfort, you should let them dictate when it's okay to pull away and end the hug.  I thought of that while my little girl clung to me.  And kept clinging.  I worried that her crying was just going to snowball out of control so I pulled away just far enough that she could see my face and I told her that I was sorry but that this tree would always be hers.  I told her that we could go to the "flower store" and buy any tree she wanted and we could plant that in our new yard and that tree would be her new tree.  She liked that.

She has so much to learn about saying goodbyes to people and things in the years ahead.  It's going to be hard for her as it was for all of us.  I knew this all along and I have feared that pain for her.  Until today though, I didn't know that I still had so much to learn about goodbyes or that my daughter would be the one teaching me.

We walked back into the house to lock up.  I saw her pause with a thoughtful look on her face.  "Daddy, can my new tree be in a pot?"

"You bet, Sweetheart."  Just because I know she has to learn to say goodbyes doesn't mean I won't do everything I can to delay it.

Four Cars and a Chainsaw

I have sold four cars in my life.  Each time I sold the car it was because my life had changed and I needed something different.

My first car was terrible.  Only one of the four doors opened from the outside (and it wasn’t the driver’s door).  It burned through a quart of oil every 80 miles so I always had an entire case of Penzoil in the trunk.  Within six months of owning it the alternator went out and the battery died and along with the battery my resolve to keep the car on life support died with it.  Besides, I was enrolling in college and I would be working three jobs and I needed a more reliable car to get me around – preferably one that friends wouldn’t have to slide through open windows in order to get into. 

My second car was a stick shift.  I bought it even though I didn’t know how to drive a stick because it was so much cooler than my last car.  After a couple herky-jerky hours of practice in a parking lot I thought I was ready to go.  Turns out, you don’t really know if you can drive a stick shift until you get stopped at a red light on a steep hill.  Also, as it turns out, that’s a terrible time to learn that you can’t drive a stick shift.  I kept that car all through college and after I mastered the clutch I fell in love with that car.  I took it on road trips, smoked cigars in it, discovered great music in it, had talks about Life and Love in it.  As far as cars go, it was definitely my first true love.  But then I got married and we had decided to move to my wife’s hometown in California and a car without air conditioning just wasn’t going to cut it.  So I traded that car in and almost made enough money on it to cover the cost of the new snow tires I wouldn’t need any more and the stereo I had loved so much. 

Big enough for two people.  Not quite big enough for two people, a dog, and a baby.

My third car was a pretty normal young adult car.  It was a nearly perfect compromise for that time in our life.  It was sporty looking but reliable, got respectable gas mileage but had a few unnecessary frills and it had A/C and a manual transmission (I did say I learned to love driving a stick shift).  That car served us well for several years and the air conditioning definitely helped me get used to the California heat.  But we sold that car when we found out that we were expecting a child.  You just can’t get a baby in and out of a car seat when you’re driving a low-to-the-ground 2-door.  So we bought an SUV for my wife and I got the truck I had always wanted.

Years later I’m now the one driving the SUV and my wife has a new-to-us car.  We sold the truck last weekend.  True to the pattern, life has changed again.  We have decided it is time to pack up 10-years’ worth of junk and move to a new neighborhood in a better school district because our daughter will (impossibly it seems) start school next fall.  And, frankly we never thought we’d stay in our current house as long as we have.  Now you might be wondering why on Earth I would sell a truck before moving.  I know I am.  I already miss having that thing.  The plain truth is that we didn’t need three vehicles but we did need some extra cash for down payments and real estate fees and all those other expenses that come with moving.  So I let go of the truck I drove for nearly a decade.

A small truck is a great thing for a gardener.

We are feeling cautiously optimistic.  We don’t know if our house will sell or when it might.  We don’t know if we’ll find the perfect house for the rest of our lives.  But we feel like we’re in a good position.  We don’t absolutely have to move.  We can take our time and make the right decisions for our family.  But tempering that optimism is a bit of melancholy.  This was, after all, our first house.  This is where our dog achieved his ultimate goal of becoming an inside dog.  This is where Santa has found our daughter every Christmas of her life.  This is the house we managed to furnish to our mutual liking in spite of my wife’s “denim furniture” phase.  This is the house where we figuratively and literally sank our roots.  I have cut down a bunch of burdensome trees and planted new ones that I was excited to see grow.  I have planted boxwood hedges that haven’t had a chance to fill in yet.  Just a few weeks ago I planted a hundred white tulips that might not bloom before we leave.  So, yeah, I’m a little sad to say goodbye before I’ve seen the culmination of all that effort.

One of several trees that fell under my reign here.

But if there’s one thing that selling cars and cutting down trees has taught me about life it’s that letting go of something old is the only way you can grab onto something new.

What a Beautiful World

Although I love to read I am a very slow reader.  As I go through a book, I pronounce each word in my head as if I were speaking it aloud.  It takes me a long time to finish a book of significant length but if the book is good enough, it’s an endeavor I gladly pursue. 

                                                                                                                    

But I also enjoy the satisfaction that comes from finishing a story.  Perhaps because of that satisfaction and because I am a slow reader, I am drawn to short stories.  But I think that short stories are under appreciated these days which is a shame because short stories marry the best of the full length novel with the best of poetry.  In a short story you have characters and plot and prose just like in a novel.  But in a great short story there are things left out – things the reader must assume or imagine on their own just like in a poem.  The writer must choose their words more carefully in a short story as in a poem.  Done correctly, a short story has both the weight and the agility of a broadsword that can cut right through your malaise and leave you feeling as if you’ve just been reshaped. 

A few years back I picked up an anthology called “The Best Short Stories of the Century”.  While I was familiar with several of the stories in the book I had not heard of either Alice Elliot Dark or her short story In the Gloaming.  I didn’t even know what a “gloaming” was or how you’d get in one. 

My office building isn't exactly breath taking, but I was charmed by it last night.

I can’t tell you that I remember every line of this story or that the characters (a mother and her son who was dying from AIDS) made a huge impact on me.  But I can tell you that I was enchanted by the feeling and the mood of this story.  I learned that what I had always thought of as dusk or twilight is also called “the gloaming.”  There was something about that word that I felt drawn to.  It somehow gave new meaning to something I had experienced many times before.  Knowing a new name for it gave it another level of mystery.  Twilight was no longer that brief time after sunset but before total darkness.  It now reminded me of this transforming story.  It reminded me that our lives are sometimes strange and sometimes mundane, sometimes short and sometimes long, sometimes contemplative and sometimes we just don’t pay attention to the way life (or light) changes.

It was half light and half dark and the leaves were half gone.  Everything was in balance.

Filmmakers call it “the magic hour”.  I like that, but in my experience the magic lasts just a few minutes.  And when I walk outside this time of year I am sometimes astounded to find that I have stepped into just the kind of lightness that I associate with the gloaming.  It happened to me last night. 

I felt lucky to be alive.  I felt like standing in the parking lot until it passed.  I felt alive and quiet and a bit giddy.  I also knew, quite acutely, that too much of my life is being spent under a roof and away from windows.  I need these moments of clarity and I need to keep making myself available to them. 

I need to go for more walks.  I need to stand out in the garden even when it is cold.  I need to remember that our lives are meant to be inspired, that we are supposed to revel in the natural beauty of our planet, that we don’t need to capture or prolong these moments just as long as we keep looking for them.

In brighter light, this plant looks forlorn, neglected and out of place.  Last night it seemed like it was meant to be there.

Found Time



Things are finally slowing down for me.  I have been playing softball two nights a week and sometimes on the weekend since late April.  But our softball season finally ended with a pizza party last night.  Not having something scheduled on Monday and Tuesday nights now seems like a luxury.  Somehow, that extra time on the calendar makes it feel as if other pockets of time have opened up.

I know this Moonflower bloomed a couple days ago for the first time but this is the first open bloom I have seen.

This morning, for example, I found a few extra minutes to wander in my garden before my work day began. 

A Zephyr Lily about to open.  Maybe tomorrow morning I will have a chance to check on its progress.

Most of the design-oriented blogs and books I have read suggest planting colors that will look good during the time of day that you are most likely to actually be in your garden.  I always thought that time was going to be late evening so I have planted a lot of whites and pale blues. 

I know containers "should" have a thriller, a filler, and a spiller but I gravitate toward the spillers.
This container includes both sweet potato vine and bacopa.

But more and more I am finding time to enjoy the garden in the morning.  The light is soft and gentle.  It is quiet in my neighborhood.  There are fewer things competing for my attention.  There is still water on the plants.  It feels tranquil and contemplative. 

Water glistens on the late summer growth of an Acer palmatum var. dissectum 'Orangeola'.

I have noticed, too, that when I take a stroll in the morning, I am less likely to feel compelled to do something.  In the morning, I don’t need to prune the roses, pick the weeds, sweep the patio, or move a clump of grass because there will be time and enough daylight for those things later. 

This is a phlox hybrid called 'Intensia Blueberry' by Proven Winners.  It's a new plant for me.
It could use some deadheading, but there will be time for that later on.

As autumn approaches, as the summer sun sets earlier, as the heat begins to relinquish its sway, I am thankful for extra time because I know that a gardener’s fall is filled with new chores, new things blooming, and new ideas.  I want to taste and to savor these beautiful mornings and stolen moments.  I want to have my fill and get fat on them because I know that soon enough the memories of these moments will need to sustain me until spring when everything, including softball, begins again.    

Acer palmatum 'Bloodgood' - A common Japanese maple with uncommonly beautiful coloring in spring and fall.

This is my back corner bed.  It is filled with plants and it is filled with chores.
But this morning I just enjoyed it and didn't try to edit anything.

We Do One Thing at the Cost of Not Doing Another

A Stanley Marsh 3 road sign pretty well sums up
my view of the way time is passing.

I keep staring at my blog and thinking, “It’s been two weeks since I’ve written something. I should write something.”  And then I see on my blog roll that someone else has updated their blog and off I go. 

It’s not that I don’t want to write something or that I don’t have things to write about; I do.  It’s just that I’ve been busy with some things and lazy about other things. 

William Barrett wrote in his landmark study of Existential philosophy, Irrational Man, that “we know one thing at the cost of not knowing another.”  I concur.  But I would add to this that we could replace the words “know” and “knowing” with several other concepts and it would still be true.

We do one thing at the cost of not doing another.

We esteem one thing at the cost of not esteeming another.

We love one thing at the cost of not loving another.

This truth has been acutely evident in my life lately.  I have played in softball tournaments at the cost of not having Saturday’s in the garden.  I have spent lunch hours running to the Post Office to mail off eBay sales at the cost of not snapping garden photos.  I have spent those extra two minutes here and there playing Words with Friends at the cost of not taking the food scraps out to the compost bin.  I have been reading "A Year of Wonders" and "The Monsters and the Critics" instead of "Fine Gardening" and "Horticulture." 

How people spend their time and their money is the most visible barometer of what matters to them.  And lately, I have to say that I’m not feeling all that great about how I’ve been spending my time and I'm ready to get back to what feels right to me.  But first I have some commitments this weekend.  I will help a friend bring home some bookshelves (the curse of owning a truck), I will celebrate a wedding and I will attend a meeting.  These are good things, of course, but they take time.   

So I am also going to take a day off and make it a 3-day weekend.  And I plan on using at least some of that extra time to do one thing (gardening) at the cost of not doing several other things.

And I can hardly wait. 

I'm Getting Bluer Every Day

I’m sure this happens to everyone in some fashion.  A friend knows you majored in whatever you majored in while at college or, if you didn’t go to college, you developed a fondness for a certain area of interest.  That friend, therefore, assumes you paid attention in class and treats you like an expert on the subject whether you deserve it or not. 

I majored in English.  And now I’m expected to know things like how to diagram a sentence, how to write in iambic pentameter, and how not to dangle participles.  My ability to do those things is hit or miss.  Okay, it’s a total swing-and-a-miss when it comes to iambic pentameter. 

When I’m put to the test, I can often skirt a direct answer simply by saying something lofty like “Oh, that’s a really complicated answer.  I could explain it to you, but your mind would probably go into a boredom induced coma.  Just write it this way instead.”  But sometimes, there’s no getting out of it unscathed. 

A group of friends were sitting around talking the other morning when one of them remarked, “Some people show up and put on an apron.  Others show up and put a bib on.”  We all liked that metaphor.  “Wait, is that a metaphor or is it an analogy?” someone asked.  All eyes shifted my way. 

“Well, I can tell you for sure that it’s not a simile” I offered unhelpfully.     

Whether it’s a simile, a metaphor, an analogy or an allegory shouldn’t detract from its power.  That is why we use them; their power.  A pithy simile can make you nod in agreement like a bobblehead.  A well-placed metaphor can sock you with hurricane force.  An analogy has the staying power of an ancient oak tree.  And a thoughtful allegory can get you really worked up about the pig having absolute power around the farm. 

And this power can be found in surprising places if you learn to look for it. 

I found power while looking at a hydrangea in my front yard.  I’ve got nothing against a pink hydrangea (unlike Madonna) but I prefer blue so I have been adding aluminum sulfate for a couple years and you can see by the bloom on the left that it is starting to work. 

While I photographed this plant, it struck me that in some ways, our lives mirror this hydrangea.  The (almost) blue flowers are no more innately good or valuable than the pink flowers are.  And even though they look very different, they are part of just one body. 

In the same way, our lives, personalities, and relationships are filled with different things, often opposite things, that are no better or more valuable than the other.

I find this to be true when I consider how I straddle the line between maintaining healthy eating habits to help me live a long life and eating, drinking and being merry to help me live a full, rich life.

But it could apply to any number of things.  For instance, it could speak to how we spend our time: should we relax with a book or energize with a hike?  Or it could speak to how we spend our money: should we save for retirement or go on family vacation?  Or how we interact with others: should we offer selfless advice or just listen?  Should we let that comment slide or stand up for ourselves?  Should we be uncompromising in our convictions or should we learn to compromise?

Of course, if you know exactly who you are and who you are works for you just fine, there's certainly nothing wrong with a peaceful and consistent whitish-pink life.  

Or even an airy, light blue and white life with a little variegated background if that's your thing. 

I think what matters is that you take note of the colors around you and consider whether you're happy with them.  If not, you might want to add some aluminum sulfate to your life. 

And that aluminum sulfate is, of course, a metaphor for something else.  Unlike the apron and the bib which, I believe, is an analogy.