Blogging Kindness

Nina’s Kindness

I started my blog in June, 8 years ago.

It’s seen me through 16 books, and I’ve made thousands of connections. I’ve met hundreds of bloggers I’m delighted to call “friends.”

Is that a hollow word? Not at all. It means that on some level I’ve felt a connection, perhaps brief, perhaps lasting for years, perhaps close enough that if I’m in your city or state or country someday, I’ll reach out and invite you out for coffee or wine.

For writers, blogging is essential, not for sales, but for the incredible encouragement, the cheers, the advice, the shoulder to gripe on or cry on. Bloggers are the ones who pat our backs, offer their time and talents, help us find resources, and support our marketing efforts. We get to showcase our reviews, our covers, our snippets, flash fiction, and poetry. We learn, we are challenged, we celebrate others and are celebrated.

But blogging isn’t only for storytellers, obviously. I’ve “met” artists, photographers, philosophers, jokers, wanderers, chefs, teachers and parents, historians, and thinkers. During these dark days of isolation, the kindness of bloggers has felt especially important. When I want to withdraw, bloggers remind me that the world is full of kindness.

I commented on a post by Nina of Method Two Madness that her painted rocks were beautiful as well as a wonderfully creative way to brighten the world when we so need beauty and light. The next thing I knew, Nina was sending me three beautiful pieces of artwork. They now sit in my garden:

Kindness in my garden

And she added in this beautiful card, which I’ll be framing from my writing room wall – a reminder of the many gifts of blogging and the kindness of very real friends.

Artwork for my Writing Room

Thank you, Nina. ❤

If you get a chance, visit Nina and Kerfe at Method Two Madness. They share a beautiful blog of artwork, prose, and poetry.

Does the kindness of bloggers brighten your world?

Coffee or wine, my friend?

Rose Garden Haiku

sensuous beauty

blushing beneath the sun’s tongue

pink folds unfurling

 

white linens windblown

a dancer’s petals whirling

in joyous spirit

 

spring rain surrenders

 May’s roses lift fair faces

to sunlight’s warm breath

 

vintage tapestry

roses stitched on wine and jade

grandmother’s bouquet

 

harlequin tumblers

decked in frippery and frills

perform for the sun

 

fuzzy chubby bee

revel in your golden wreath

sated with summer

 

Thank you for visiting my garden. ❤

I hope you’re doing well.

Fragrant #Writephoto

Copyright Sue Vincent

Agatha inherited her grandmother’s home, a small thing as houses went, with creaky floors and spidery cracks, a kitchen with two hundred years of updates and none of them modern. The place smelled of beeswax and herbs, lemon polish, patchouli, and memories.

She loved the quaint place that would become her home, but it was the formal garden that she roamed first. The Garden of Good Intentions, a little hand-painted sign said at the start of the nearest path. Neatly edged walkways, lined with bright fireworks of lavender, divided the round garden into quarters like slices of pie. All well-tended. But it was the myriad roses that had soaked up her grandmother’s devotion—old garden heirlooms and hybrid teas, exotics and wild species, miniatures and clusters of grandifloras.

The garden had once filled Agatha’s childhood with magic, but now as she strolled the pathways, her eyes widened with dread. She was born with a withering, wilting, aphid-prone, black-spotted thumb. In a year, the cherished garden would be dead.

Despite its impending doom, the place was worth an effort at least. Lips pressed between her teeth, Agatha rummaged in the shed for clippers and gloves and donned her grandmother’s straw hat with plastic daisies wired to the brim.

She watered too much when she wasn’t watering too little, cut away dying canes and broke a few living ones, deadheaded, and made her own fertilizers and bug sprays that scarcely worked. In the autumn, she trimmed the bushes back so far that she figured a few would never see spring. And yet somehow, they always recovered after a year… or two, heavy with blooms, vibrant, and smelling like heaven.

Jocelyn inherited her grandmother’s home with its creaky floors and spidery cracks, and though the kitchen had been updated, the place still smelled of honey and herbs, lemon polish and memories. She loved the quaint place that would become her home, but it was the beautiful garden that she roamed first. The Garden of Good Intentions, a hand-painted sign said at the start of the nearest path.

**

This story is in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto prompt. Sue shares a new prompt every Thursday.