Gardens

Seeing Beauty in all Things

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 18, 2026 category Gardens, Walks

I’m fairly sure I would have made a good editor. I look closely and I pay attention. This has served me well as a friend, a parent, and a teacher, but it also has its drawbacks. It’s easy for me to spot mistakes. I notice the overgrown gardens and the discarded trash. I pay attention to whether drivers make a full stop at the red sign, and whether pet parents pick up their pet’s poop.

I see the broken asphalt and the pot holes that dot our street. But, I also see the robin bathing in the water that gathers there after a spring rain. I see the trees once adorned in pink and white flowers now covered in green leaves. Interestingly, what I think of as beauty is often situated next to what might be regarded as decay.

It is particularly evident in the crab apple tree where some of the flowers cling to the branches while others leave gaps in the empty spaces directly next to where they once were. On the ground below the blossoms sprinkle the broken sidewalk with glitter as the tree prepares to produce fruit. It reminds me of Oz.

Many mornings I stopped at this bulb garden, admiring the tulips and daffodils. But what do I see when I look at what remains after the performance?

I ask myself if I can still observe its beauty,

It’s easy to be excited about the primrose. But can I also be excited about the daffodil, past its prime, as some would say?

There is focus on seeing the good, the lovely, the significant. But at what cost? I can’t train my eye not to see what’s broken, discarded, and dismissed. But, I can decide to see the beauty in it.

Looking Closely

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 12, 2026 category Gardens, Walks

I appreciate a planned outing. I am prepared for what I might see and anticipate the effect it may have on me. But, it’s the unexpected moments that I appreciate even more. It’s the multi-colored tulips that remain closed to the early morning chill that stop me in my tracks.

The flowering dogwood causes me to pause as its branches reach across the sidewalk; it dares me to walk past without stopping to see the blossoms of four petals spread like a cross.

Forced to the other side of the road to avoid those working on a neighbor’s roof, I ask Franklin to stop so I may observe the new growth on the pine tree, the lime green tips so young and bright.

And, while I look for those unexpected moments of hope, Ivy leads me directly to the house of someone who appreciates our passing by. We are invited to stop—Ivy for a treat, and me, for a place where I feel welcome.

There is something for everyone, if we take the time to look closely.

One Bloom at a Time

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 2, 2026 category Furry Friends, Gardens, Walks

I hook Franklin’s leash to his collar, open the front door, and step out. We stop on the landing before making our way down the three steps to the walkway. I take a deep breath and look around. No matter the weather, I declare that it is a beautiful day. And, with that, we begin our walk.

Each morning brings a surprise. What was tightly closed yesterday, is now vibrant in its exuberance. The magenta azalea conceals nothing today.

Franklin returns home and it’s Ivy’s turn. There is a particular house on the boulevard that is in some disrepair. Vines climb, trash collects, and yet the bulbs greet us as we wander past. I was taken with the tulips in the stage just before opening. They remain in a state of anticipation, or perhaps of potential. I want to tell them to take all the time they need.

And, there is not a day when I don’t marvel at this sycamore at the top of the street, its white trunk painting a picture against the backdrop of blue sky. I stand beneath it, Ivy waiting, and declare again that this day is beautiful.

I drove to Brandywine Park this week to see if the cherry blossoms were in bloom. They were not. But on the way home, I saw daffodils growing wildly free near the stone wall. It was evidently their time.

Springing to Life

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 12, 2026 category Gardens, Walks

The weather was especially lovely the past few days. The sun was out, the birds were active, and green was shooting up out of the remaining fallen leaves. I took Ivy for a walk, a slow stroll down a long row of houses. She sniffed until she found just the right spot, and as she prepared herself at the edge of a lawn, near the street, atop a pile of leaves, I heard a voice coming from the home. I saw a woman crouching by her open window speaking words I couldn’t quite comprehend. Stunned, I asked her what she said. She repeated, “My property is not your dog’s toilet.” I remained calm and held up the green bag indicating I would be sure to pick it up. She told me that after I did so, I should wipe my hand over the spot and see what happens.

I calmly walked on, taking another route home—one that would not pass by the grey colonial and the woman at the window. I didn’t cry, but that might have been an option. I felt her words in my body. In my heart, more directly. I wondered about her and her anger, balancing it between my hurt and moving forward.

There is often beauty that shoots up out of pain. If given enough time, it shows itself. It can’t help it. Like the primrose, the green takes precedence over its colorless surroundings. The iris, as well, defies its surroundings, and pops with hope of what’s to come.

Even my garden angel shines more brightly when the sun reflects off it.

I think of my friend, Cathy, who gifted me many of the perennials (and the angel) in my garden. I am reminded of joy and hope, of kindness and understanding. And, when the atmosphere feels harsh and even ugly, I remember the power of beauty, and of the the crocuses, which last week were a single bloom, but now take over a good portion of a neighborhood property.

A Glimmer of Hope

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 2, 2026 category Furry Friends, Gardens, Walks

My recent walks have not been philanthropic. I’ve had to do it, and thus it feels like work. Joe broke his ankle, so the walking of three dogs multiple times a day has fallen to me. I’m cranky and not proud of it.

Recent snowstorms and frigid weather have kept things hidden. Though some things are unseen, they still remain. A recent thaw exposed a used coffee cup, fallen leaves, and a plethora of pine needles beneath a large tree. Things will come to the surface.

The cold weather returned today, reminding me that winter remains. As do the large snow piles that still block access to the sidewalks, causing pedestrians to enter the roadway to get by.

I admit that I haven’t looked up often-enough these days. But sometimes there’s a glimmer of hope in the dried-out grass. Today I spotted it in this crocus, so narrow, so frail, that I was unable to get a clear photo. But it was there and I felt it was just for me.

I sense a change in the air. The earlier sunrise. The tinge of yellow where forsythia will soon bloom. My neighbor digging in her garden. Glimmers of hope.

Just in Case

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 12, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I scrubbed the hummingbird feeder and filled it with fresh nectar over a week ago. Since that time, not one has come. I knew they wouldn’t. I knew they had left, but I did it just in case.

Years ago, when my daughter bought her own house and moved out, I continued to set the table with four dishes, at first instinctually, and then, just in case.

Last times are hard whether we know it’s goodbye, or whether we realize their loss sometime later. When was the last time I held Rockland’s hand while crossing the street? I had taken, for a while, to writing things down—just in case. But now I purpose to notice and simply enjoy the moments.

This morning, I listened to the caws of Blue Jays, sipped my cooling coffee, watched Graycie resting on a chair, and Ivy sleeping on the love seat on my screened porch.

The hummingbird feeder remains empty of visitors while the nearby zinnias continue to flourish. I could take down the feeder and bring it in for the winter, but I leave it a while longer.

Just in case.

The Gives and Takes

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 26, 2025 category Gardens

Fall has arrived and with it less daylight and more squirrels; less activity at the bird feeders and more leaves on the streets. The morning temperatures are cooler and the evening air more crisp. It’s been six days since I’ve seen a hummingbird, but I change the nectar in the hopes it will entice a passerby to come and drink.

I am surprised by the bright colors of the zinnia, typically considered summer hues. The pinks and the yellows glorious in the setting sun. My moon flower has been generous this year; I counted 31 flowers in one night. I marvel at the size of the blooms, given fully for one short night and then curled up to die once the sun rises. For such a time as this.

I’ve taken to an attitude of thankfulness. I walk one of my labs each morning and tend to notice everything. Sometimes it’s the trash thrown on the side of the road; sometimes it’s the weeds on the other side of fences. I feel offended that the people who live on the other side of those fences put their trash cans on our street while their yards remain pristine. I catch myself in this conversation and I tell myself to see the beauty. I notice a volunteer flower pushing its way through a crack in the pavement, the three crows who spend time in the highest tree tops, the bees that enjoy the wildflowers near the gully. In particular, I notice the goldenrod growing out into the street where cars have to move to go around it, and I smile.

Fall gives and it takes away. While we lose warmth and light, we gain colors that transmit both. It’s a time to open windows and feel the breeze enter our homes. It’s a chance to appreciate the offering of the harvest and to hear the crinkle of leaves before they release themselves to the earth.

It’s full of surprises, as overnight the gift of bright orange mushrooms appear on the lawn of a house on the boulevard. I politely ask Ivy to stay back.

And, while my cone flowers have long since produced pink flowers, it’s still time to receive the gift of late summer roses from a dear friend.

I greet you, Fall, with all you have to offer and with all you remove. You are welcome here.

Meeting Virginia

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 20, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

It’s why I walk.

I met Virginia today. More accurately, I met her a couple of years ago before I got sick, but I don’t think she remembers me. She was standing by her front door and I had picked up her newspaper and handed it to her so she wouldn’t have to walk down the three steps to gather it herself. I had seen her neighbor do it for her, so now when I see her paper on the wet grass or on her front walkway or even at the curb near the street, I pick it up, fold it, and slip it into the entry door handle. That way, all she has to do is open the screen door of her front porch, reach to her left and retrieve her paper.

Virginia is 95 years old. She lives alone, but does not appear lonely. Today, I was a half block away from her home when I saw her navigating her front steps to get the newspaper. I hurried along with Franklin, crossing the street, but she had already reached the paper and with the use of her cane and side banister, was already walking back up the steps to her porch door. I was a house away when I said, “Good morning, Virginia! You beat me to it today!”

“So, you’re the one!” she said. “I didn’t know who it was that was bringing up my paper. I wanted to write a note and leave it on the door saying, ‘Thank you!’” She stood upright and her white hair was combed neatly. She was already dressed for the day, and on this cooler morning, wore a white sweater that fit her beautifully. She invited me to come in and I could think of nothing better.

Franklin waited on the enclosed porch while Virginia took me into her living room. She turned on every lamp in the room. The walls were pink and she noted that while the house was built in the 1930s, the walls still had no cracks in them. She went through a litany of colors that the walls had been painted over the years, but seemed content with the current shade. The couch was hers; the chairs were all given to her by family members who had no more use for them. She said it with a smile.

She took me into each room: the kitchen with its large pantry and oversized dining table; the bedroom which was formerly two rooms, but when her daughter moved out, she had it made into one larger room with two clothes closets. I noticed that her bed was made and she pointed out that she’s made her bed every day since she was seven or eight years old. Her routine was to get up, make the bed, wash up, get dressed, and put on earrings. She used to work for the local board of education and was accustomed to dressing up.

She and her husband moved here when she was 31. She says it’s an easy house to live in. It’s where she raised her four children—one of whom died of dementia. She invited me to sit, but I needed to get back to my walk with Franklin. She told me to stop anytime if I needed a drink or to use the bathroom.

I gathered up Franklin and stepped outside of Virginia’s home. We continued on the downhill slope of Brandywine Boulevard, past Tom who called out to me to pick some figs—they ripen a little at a time and you have to get to them. I returned a call to my three-year-old granddaughter who called while I was at Virginia’s. She and my daughter call me on her way to school. The sound of her voice is music to my soul.

I looked from Franklin to the sky to the cars bustling by. To the buses on their practice routes before school begins next week. I look at the lawns and bushes and peeled bark of sycamore trees. And, I wonder about the people I pass—the ones I can see and the ones behind closed doors. The ones like Virginia.

Overgrown Summer

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 17, 2025 category Gardens

Summer has overtaken its bounds. Walkways all but disappear beneath weighty branches of echinacea, while moonflower vines reach out to connect to whatever they can climb. The trellis I provided has long since become inadequate.

I no longer look at overgrowth as something to be managed. I prefer to see it as food, protection, and a gathering place for those who visit or call my garden home.

Isn’t that what we all long for?

Summer Mornings

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 8, 2025 category Gardens, Stories

I met a friend for coffee this morning: mine was a cappuccino with whole milk, hers a cappuccino with miso caramel. It was quiet at 7:15, just after opening. We chose a table in the corner. I faced the side of the cafe and she the tree-lined window. We’d been colleagues, but have now become friends. We laugh. We tear up. We share moments of our lives that we didn’t know about each other when I was a volunteer at her school, and she, my supervisor. We ask each other questions like what we would like to do next, or after this, or some day. My response was to write. She made me promise I would.

When I got home, I put on my white sneakers, leashed-up Franklin, and headed out the door. The weather was cooler than most days this summer and we moved at a quick pace. Coming up the long hill, I saw Tom walking out to his car and he stopped to chat. He pointed to the tree whose branches had grown over his sidewalk, causing walkers to step into the road to pass by.

“I’ll be cutting that branch down when the fruit ripens. I don’t want the town to come and tell me I’m blocking the sidewalk. Here, pick some. Take that one over there, too.”

“Are they peaches, Tom?”

“Nectarines. They’re in the peach family, though. Here’s the figs. You know, the house near you, they have a fig tree. On the right.”

“I know! I have a fig tree, too, in the back.”

“What? Who died?”

“Nobody died.”

“Did you say somebody died?”

“No, Tom.”

Tom wears a black ski cap, even in summer. He started gardening when he came to this country from Italy. He prefers to grow food instead of grass. One of his neighbors is not happy that he planted three nectarine trees near her property line.

“She’s worried they will grow over onto her property. So what? They grow over, you just cut them. What’s the big deal?”

He asked if I wanted to see the back garden, and led me down the driveway and around the house. He told me to wait while he went inside to get a gathering basket and a white bag. Every inch of space had a plant. I noticed gourds and tomatoes and grapes. Tom told me he was angry with the birds for eating the grapes; he’ll have to wait another year now to make wine.

He began to cut bok choy leaves and asked how I cook it. I said I sauté it. He said that’s the best way. He directed me to put the nectarines into the white bag along with the fig I picked for Joe. (I had already eaten one.) He laid the bok choy on top, directing me to clean it good as there was a lot of dirt in there, and topped it off with basil, insisting that I smell it first. He added that the next time he’d give me some mint.

It’s getting later in the summer and lots of things are overgrown. Some bushes and tall weeds block the new stop sign at the corner. Most people only slow down and keep going. I notice the crepe myrtles blooming around town. The petals fall to the ground and cover the grass in crimson. Along my street, I spotted some wild raspberries and remembered the blackberries that grew near the pond in my childhood neighborhood. I imagine the birds are happy for such a treat.

I am distracted thinking of my son flying to another country to start a new job—a one-year position. The emotions are mixed as I am excited for him, and also sad at the distance. I will miss him. My granddaughter turned three this week. Her utter joy over her birthday brings me to tears. Her excitement when unwrapping gifts, and asking, “Ohhh…what is it?” makes my heart want to explode.

Change of seasons, new growth, loss, wonder at what’s ahead. I marvel at how things change so quickly, and at the same time, remain the same. New jobs. Dreams. Some day. Wonder. What will I do next?

Sometimes it’s all so big, that I slow it down and simply sip my cappuccino. Or walk my big yellow dog.