Continuum: a coherent whole characterized as a collection, sequence, or progression of values or elements varying by minute degrees (Merriam-Webster)
When I step into the garden each morning, it has changed somehow. Perhaps it is a discrete change – a few more blooms open, fog instead of sunshine, soft summery air instead of a damp chill.
Other times, the rate of change is more dramatic – many plants have bloomed overnight, or the leaves have suddenly transformed the woodland trees into a dense green canopy. It is this continual shift and change in the garden that intrigues me and challenges me to become more aware of each moment as it passes.
The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance. ~Alan Watts
Each plant has its moment to shine; the trick is to plant enough varieties so that as one plant winds down, another rises to take its place in the spotlight.
When I teach garden design, I give my students a chart to plan their seasons of bloom, but what appears as clearly delineated boxes on a planning page is far more blurred in reality; throughout the day and throughout the seasons, the garden changes. Last week, the tall alliums gave way to the peonies and foxgloves, even as the roses and daylilies are beginning to move on stage for their moment of glory.
Blossoms are ephemeral, foliage is seasonal, but even the rocks change over time. In the evening light, the lichen on the steps glow a pale turquoise and silver, illuminating the passageway between garden levels. 
This is what the garden teaches me – the continuum of change. While I can alter the rate of change through tending the garden, and I can capture a single moment in time with my camera, those are mere attempts to slow the continual flow. With apologies to Heraclitus, I am learning that the gardener can never step twice into the same garden – and that is the joy of it.
Enjoy the gallery of garden images, each a discrete moment in time. (Click on any photo to enlarge it. All images ©2016 Lynn Emberg Purse, All Rights Reserved)
Everything changes and nothing remains still … you cannot step twice into the same stream. ~Heraclitus
In spite of chilly temperatures and a bout of sleet this morning, the garden is a visual feast of colors and texture. A thousand shades of green grace the trees as new leaves emerge each day while frequent rain has transformed the grass into an emerald carpet. Every day a new flower opens and lays its color and form against the growing tapestry of garden and woodland. Late spring, perhaps like no other season, is a study of contrasts in the garden.
My garden will be on a large garden tour this June, so I’ve been busy planting and pruning, creating a new pollinator garden (more about that in the next post) and enjoying every moment spent outdoors.
The week between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day has always been a special time for me. The everyday world seems to pause and recede, leaving time for inner reflection, time to consider the past year and the future to come.The Norwegians have a name for this season – Romjul. According to 
I’ve often thought about liminal space (
As I reflect on the year past and prepare for the year to come, the garden is on my mind. I hope to have my garden open to visitors this summer and have been busy preparing while the weather remains mild. The first packet of seeds came this week, along with a book on propagation techniques. More seeds are on their way, the light table in the basement is clean and ready, and visions of the coming garden season creep into my dreams.
November and December have been very mild this year, encouraging me to work in the garden late into the season. But this morning brought both fog and a frost, turning the world into a frozen fairyland. The moisture from the fog that coated leaf, flower, twig, and spiderweb was transformed into a spectacular structure of glistening crystals. Sadly, the last lingering roses of summer have come to a sudden halt, now preserved in ice.
I have a few more shrubs to plant today once the temperatures rise but it is probably the last time I can play in the dirt. Dreams of next year’s garden are starting to stir as I begin a list of seeds and plants to be ordered in the dark days of winter. Enjoy the photos of the last blooms of summer, both in flower and frost, while you listen to Irish tenor John McDermott sing this wistful song (video at the bottom of the page).
composerinthegarden 