Helleborus x nigercors 'Honeyhill Joy' 17 January 2026

 

An Invincible Calm
 

Do not go gentle into that good night _ Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 Rage, rage against the dying of the light

My eldest daughter called me last night and we talked for almost two hours. She was pleasantly obsessed in quoting the above poem by Dylan Thomas.

Because I like to please my daughters I wondered how I could use the poem in a blog. Because today is a lazy Saturday, after going in my bike I got on the bed with my two cats. I felt a bit restless and decided to go to my oficina. On the floor I saw the hellebores I scanned yesterday. I tried something different and scanned one as it was.

I believe that the image is of a flower that has not given up on its essence of being a hellebore. As we used to say in my boarding school in Austin, Texas in the late 50s, “So there.”

Helleborus x nigercors 'Honey Hill Joy' & Helleborus x hybridus 'Wedding Crasher' 16 January 2025

It would seem that hellebores have not inspired poets to write about them. I found very few. The hellebore was one of Rosemary’s favourite plants. She was not a spring/summer kind of gardener. She liked to have plants that bloomed in the winter,too. In my now garden that used to be our garden I have three hellebores. Two were in bloom today so I scanned them. They look delicate but I would define them as cast iron perennials.

I did find a poem by Albert Camus that to me is about the hellebore.

In the midst of hate,

I found there was, within me,

an invincible love.

In the midst of tears,

I found there was, within me,

an invincible smile.

In the midst of chaos,

I found there was, within me,

an invincible calm.

I realized, through it all,

that in the midst of winter,

I found there was, within me,

an invincible summer.

And that makes me happy.

For it says that no matter how hard

the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.

Hydrangea macrophylla 'Ayesha' - 16 January 2026

Six minutes before my Rosemary died she asked, “Am I dying?” I was unable to answer.

Of late I have come to the conclusion that while my fate may not be decided in the next 6 minutes, I am dying. I would add to that, “I am waiting to die”.

My Kitsilano house has no room on the walls for any more framed family portraits. I rarely photographed them smiling. I liked the serious look into my camera lens. As I see them, something that I am neither unable nor willing to avoid, it is patently obvious that my life was back then. My photographic output was back then. What remains are those memories.

I look at the many objects in my house that I purchased with Rosemary or objects that belonged to my mother, grandmother, father or Rosemary. I have no idea that my present family will understand their value to me. Will they want Rosemary’s collection of Italian handbags or her shoes?

My grandmother often told me, “El que espera desespera.” Because to wait, esperar and despair, desesperar it is impossible to get the meaning in English of  “He who waits,despairs.”

My youngest daughter tells me to keep busy and have distractions. I am unable to explain that distractions don’t work. Because I lived 63% of my life with Rosemary that feeling of waiting for my oblivion, just like Rosemary waited for those 6 minutes, will persist until the waiting is over.

I did not know how I was going to illustrate this lugubrious blog. For that last few weeks I have noticed how my Hydrangea macrophylla 'Ayesha' has had a couple of persistent florets. It refuses to go the same way as my other plants. Perhaps it represents the strong will of my Rosemary who did ask that question that few of our can answer so close to one's death.

De niño en Buenos Aires teníamos momentos en los cuales ciertos juguetes estaban de moda como los baleros, los trompos y los yoyós. Uno que sucedía también era la honda. Con estos aparatitos intentábamos romper botellas en las veredas o matar pajaritos. Maté uno en mi jardín y me sentí tan triste que dejé la honda y nunca más la usé.

As a Little boy in Buenos Aires we had toys that would come into fashion during the year like yo-yos, spinning tops and a device prevalent in Latin America called a balero. We also had slingshots which me made from bicycle inner tires. With these hondas we would either break bottles we placed in our sidewalk walls or we would try to kill birds. I killed one once and I became so sad when I saw it lying in my garden that I never used my honda again.

Hace unos 20 años en nuestra casa con jardín grande en Kerrisdale, Vancouver vi como las ardillas comían los bulbos de mi Rosemary. Fui a una ferretería llamada Three Vets I compré una pistola de aire réplica Magnum 357. Un día al abrir la puerta de la cocina sigilosamente vi una ardilla. Le puse un tiro. Fui a ver el resultado y la pobre aún estaba viva. Le di la coupe de grâce y decidí que nunca más mataría un animal. Guardé la pistola en la sala como trofeo y un día alguien entró en la casa y se lo robó.

About 20 years ago in our large Kerrisdale garden I spotted squirrels eating Rosemary’s bulbs. I went to Three Vets and bought a 357 Magnum replica air pistol. I would quietly open the kitchen door to see squirrels running to disappear. One day one stayed and I shot it. I went to see the result and it was still alive. I gave its coupe de grâce. I decided I would never do this again. I place the gun in the living room. One day someone entered the house and stole it.

Hace unas semanas en un baúl encontré esta honda. No tengo memoria de cuándo o dónde la compré. Le faltaba  el cuerito donde se ponían las piedras. Tengo la filosofía que todas mis pertenencias deben funcionar. La llevé a un zapatero que me la arregló por 15 dólares.

A few weeks ago I found this slingshot in a chest. I have no memory where or why I bought it. It was missing the leather pouch where one places the little stones. I have this philosophy where I believe that everything I own must be in good working order. I took it to a local shoe repair man who charged me 15$ to repair it.

What will happen when I die? What will my daughters do with all I own. What will they make of the slingshot?

¿Qué va a suceder cuando me muera? ¿Qué harán mis hijas con mis pertenencias? ¿Qué pensarán de la honda?

Samantha Taylor

Narratives & Job Jars
 

While age is definitely affecting my daily life I pride myself in having a very good memory. Some months ago I found a 5x7 b+w photograph of a lovely blonde young woman. I could not remember her name. I went through my files, which are in pretty good alphabetical order, and found nothing. I gave up.

Today as I tried to fill holes in my blog I was randomly going through files. There was one called Narratives.

In that past century I experimented with the idea that while a very good portrait might suffice, sometimes five different one is a row (and framed in that way) might just telle a better story. I have quite a few of these framed featuring my granddaughters posing with their ballet teacher.

One of the envelopes in the Narratives had the name Samantha Taylor. I have no memory of who the woman is and Google search did not help. She will remain a lovely mystery.