Better A Late Bloomer than Never a Bloomer: My gardening journey

 

My excitement knew no bounds when I spotted the first bud on my hibiscus plant, and it was sheer joy that I felt when, a few days ago, I woke up to the beauty of a white hibiscus in full bloom. It’s been about 6 years since I became a plant parent, and I am enjoying every moment of the journey. My heart skips a beat every time I see a tiny new leaf or a plant I'd
given up bloom again. There is no destination here—it’s simply a process of learning, planting, enjoying, and growing.

Growing up, I watched my mother tend to her potted garden with so much love and care. It was her little world. Yes, I liked looking at pretty flowers, but I never took much interest in the gardening process. Mom retained her love for gardening until she passed away.

I was well into my fifties when I felt a stirring as I looked at pictures of the most beautiful gardens, plants, and flowers posted by friends and folk on social media. Friends encouraged me to give it a shot. “Growing plants is therapeutic.” “Getting your hands dirty helps your health.”

Slowly but surely, I took the plunge – I was eager to grow flowering plants but did not know the first thing about how to grow them. Hence, I started with a few crotons and succulents and added a few easy-to-grow flowering plants like hibiscus.

Some thrived and some died, but my enthusiasm began to grow by leaps and bounds. Even to this day, I do not know the nitty-gritty of gardening and rely on YouTube videos and tips and tricks from friends.

Currently, I’m a proud plant parent to a money plant, syngonium, jade, hibiscus, peace lily, Monstera deliciosa, and a coleus, or flame nettle.

There is something so satisfying and joyous in watching your plants grow, and so sad when they wilt away. I even feel a twinge of guilt when I have to trim them.

I don’t have many gardening tools, and my go-to plant tonic is soaked vegetable and fruit peelings, a kind of rudimentary compost (especially onion skins), and my plants are doing well.

I believe my plants are quietly teaching me patience, the joy of nurturing and consistency, staying firmly rooted, and learning to bloom wherever you're planted. I grow as I watch them grow.

What is your gardening journey like? Do you have a favourite plant or memory from your own garden?  

This prompt is part of the weekly Blogchatter blogprompt challenge. 

Moments of Kindness : When strangers are kind

 Moments of Kindness: When strangers are kind.

 

 

I have never met Gemma (name changed), but I am connected to her virtually. We occasionally speak on the telephone. Gemma and I were members of a Bible study group, and she was the leader of the group. Gemma is prayerful, supportive, and kind.

I published a book of poems in December 2023 and shared the good news with the Bible study group. Gemma, being the kind of person that she is bought copies of the book for all 16 to 17 members of the group. I was dumbstruck. This was the greatest act of kindness that I have experienced in the 61 years of my life. We have yet to meet in person.

Kindness costs nothing. In fact, it said, “If you can’t be anything, be kind.” There’s something beautiful about kindness from strangers. It is a reassurance that the goodness of humanity still exists and that the thread of human connection still holds.

Kind gestures from people we may never see and who don’t know us or our stories leave an indelible footprint in our hearts and minds.

Kindness from strangers is unconditional—they do not expect to be paid back. They ask for no applause or recognition. The act comes from pure empathy and a sense of duty.

These gestures may seem insignificant and ordinary—a person offering you his seat in a bus or train, a driver waiting that extra moment until you cross the road, a door being held open—but they are not obliged to help you. Still, they do, and that restores your faith in humanity.

We forget faces, but the kindness received from strangers or otherwise leaves behind a lingering warmth, and we are moved to do the same for others.

They are little beacons of light that shine in the dark and are remembered for a long, long time. 

This post is part of the the BlogchatterHalfMarathon2025

Image credit: Pixabay. 

Hitting The Wrong Notes and Enjoying it.

 Hitting The Wrong Notes

 

I grew up listening to Dad’s baritone as he sang his heart out. He loved to sing and sang at home, in church, or even as he rode his red and white Lambretta scooter. I cannot sing, but I sing anyway.  I enjoy listening to music. I may turn up the sound and dance like no one's watching when no one is watching! That I have two left feet is a story for another day. The joke in the family is that I sing falsetto.

Walking down memory lane, I remember our singing periods in school—learning ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ (I can’t recall the names of the other songs now), but I also have good memories of singing in rounds and singing Hindi classics like Yeh, Sone Ki Hai Dharti, and Malik Tere Bandhe Hum. We even had a Hindi singing exam until grade 7. I passed! I loved going carol singing and even today sing in church. My voice blends quietly into the voices of the congregation.

I don’t really care that I cannot sing in pitch, though hubby opines that there are times when I sing correctly.

It is rather ironical that I married into a family of music lovers who sing and play instruments. My husband and older son are pianists and guitarists. Growing up, my husband never wanted to learn the piano but was pushed by his mother and rewarded or bribed 25p for every extra hour he practised.The money was used to buy kites. Father and son have both played in bands, and the son has been part of the youth choir in church.  Sing songs are  a regular feature in my marital home. A baby grand piano occupies a quarter of our living room space, while musical equipment and keyboards lie scattered around the house. Music books compete for space with my reading material. The classical music my husband plays doesn’t always appeal to me, but the other foot-tapping numbers are sure mood uplifters.

Music and song for me isn’t about hitting the right notes—it’s about being alive enough to sing, even if I’m mostly hitting the wrong notes, and enjoying myself. 

This post is part of the BlogChatter Half -Marathon 2025

Image credit: Pixabay

If Love Knocked On My Door...

 

If Love Knocked On My Door

 

I imagine love not as an abstract feeling but as a living presence. What would it say to me? It comes carrying appreciation and warmth, reminding us of the goodness inside us.

Here’s what I think Love would say to me:

 Hey you!

May I come in?

Open up, it’s me, love, the emotion you humans can’t stop talking about. I’m in your song, your books, your poetry, and your films.

I bring laughter, warmth, comfort, and hugs. I can see that you’re already spreading me around pretty generously. I’m so proud of you.

I see myself in the patience you have with your aged parents and the care you give to your spouse and children. Your empathy and compassion is born out of your love for mankind.

I’m so happy that you talk about me and encourage others to make room for me, given the amount of hate that exists in the world today.

I see you encounter difficult people, and it’s really hard for you to show even an atom of me towards them, but I can see that you make an effort, and I appreciate that.

So allow me to remain in your life and continue to share me in your words and actions. It’s through hearts like yours that I grow.

P.S. Your bhajiwala’s WhatsApp status reads: “Love you all.”

Lovingly yours,

Love.

 

This post is part of the BlogchatterHalfMarathon2025

Image credit : Pixabay. 

 

Where Spice Meets The Soul

The kitchen has always been more than a space to cook. It's a space where flavours and aromas stir up memories, love, and laughter. My poem is a tribute to this magical space that blends love with spice. 

"For your every dish is a poem," said my father to my mother.  

The kitchen is my domain.

Queen of all I survey—

Pots and pans,

Spoons and knives,

Jars of spices in proud array.

 

Turmeric, Chili, Cumin and Teel

Flavouring every dish at every meal.

Each a different, vibrant hue,

With hidden powers,

Meant to comfort and heal.

 

The sizzle of onions, the clatter of spoons

A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper—

A beautiful harmony

On a warm sunny afternoon.

 

Chop and blend.

Bake or fry -

There’s an ounce of love

In every pastry and pie.

 

It’s here where soups simmer

And pots bubble,

And spice meets the soul—

That the heart is happy and whole.

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

Image credit: Pixabay.