There’s something beautiful about an old watering can, but it’s got to be a metal can, nothing plastic that predictably hardens, chips, and discolors uniformly with age. No, only real watering cans have Shibui. They have character because there’s something endearing in their unique scruffiness.

We could analyze the Shibui of a watering can ~ a Japanese term loosely defined as the “aesthetic of simple, subtle, and unobtrusive beauty” ~ and come up with some plausible reasons why we especially like it. Its shape. The way it feels. Its function. Or the familiar and easy partnership gardeners share with their trusty water carriers, who’ve seen them through many a physical and emotional drought. But this wouldn’t paint the whole picture.

Although worn beauty is difficult to define precisely ~ be it visible on leather purses, hats, furniture, or watering cans ~ it is easy to recognize. And that’s exactly the point: there’s something mysterious about an aspect we all agree on but cannot define.

This week’s image ~ above right ~ Lilac Watering Can.

Have you ever come upon an iridescent rose or is there even such a thing?

While photographing the private garden of a neighbor early one foggy morning, I discovered a blossom with a pearly luster similar to the soft yellow pastels of an abalone shell.

This week’s image ~ Bonny Doon Iridescence ~ conclusively answers our opening question in the affirmative.

Were I an oil painter, I’d gain inspiration from a quote by Stanley Horowitz:

Winter is an etching, spring is a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.

to single out this sunflower for a portrait. Flinging her tresses to the wind (for she’s capricious by nature), she might feel self-conscious posing statue-like for our sitting. But no matter: with a camera I can capture her summer blush in an instant and retain it forever.

This week’s image ~ above right ~ July Sunflower.

Many thanks to my friend Kim for her 4th of July rainbow bouquet, from which July Sunflower sprang.

Garden lore has it that the scarlet-orange color of the Trumpeter rose actually intensifies in the summer heat.

Hardy and disease resistant with dark green, glossy leaves, this Floribunda (flowering freely) blooms several times throughout the season. Hopeful news for me. After transplanting my one-of-a-kind garden gem, a resourceful young doe nipped all the buds before they had a chance to open into their characteristic red ruffly brilliance. Heralding July, this rose ~ right ~ was the first to fully blossom free and undisturbed.

Rosa Trumpeter, cultivated by Sam McGredy in New Zealand in 1977, grows into a heavily branched, three-foot-high shrub (reaching maturity in 5-10 years), making it an ideal hedging rose.

If you observe closely, you might discover that each Trumpeter rose has 39 petals – exactly.

This week’s image ~ Trumpeter Rose.

Derived from crossing hybrid Teas with Polyantha roses, Floribunda roses combine the best qualities of the two groups.

The massive scale of grass steppes, valleys and thin riverine forests in the Khan Khentee protected area in northeastern Mongolia are better suited to horseback riding than to walking, but on this day I was a happy biped moving slowly through dung-maculated valleys full of the bleached skulls, spines and other stray bones of departed animals.

Mongolia, once the largest empire the world has ever suffered under the rule of Chingiss Khan, is now the least densely populated country in the world, and under the boundless sky here in an area known as Terelj, it feels like it. I was here to spend two weeks writing, hiking, riding horses and staying in a ger with a nomadic family of herders. On my fourth day, the quality of light and scale of the landscape inspired me to undertake an epic yet approximate walk, off that way, marking time by the sun.

Dandelion-loving yak in Terelj, Mongolia. Photograph by Brian Awehali.

Several things of human interest happened along the way, but the nature was better: Through alpine tundra and over great loping hills with statuesque stone outcroppings at their peaks, marmots emerged from holes in the ground and darted into other holes. I passed yak, cattle and horse aplenty, but saw no wolf or roedeer, though both are common to the area. And the birds: Daurian redstarts, Siberian blue robins and black kites flew close, perching on rocks and branches near enough to reach with my hand, looking inquisitive and unafraid. Steppe eagles and hawks kept their circling distance, above.

Candlelit ger in Terelj, Mongolia. Photograph by Brian Awehali.

After rolling hills, and with the sun hanging low on the horizon, I descended and picked my way through lowland marsh, where tufts of loamy earth had to be stepped on like lilypads to avoid sinking to the knee. I arrived just before night fell, and my host family brought hot milk tea and stoked the wood stove in the ger for the night. I sat drinking tea while I watched the last blue of the sky fade in the circular hole in the center of the ceiling.

This week’s image ~ above right ~ Terelj, Mongolia, photograph by Brian Awehali.
This week’s thumbnail ~ Brian Awehali, self portrait.

Read the full story of Brian’s epic trek: Foolishness and Generosity in Gorkhi Terelj, Mongolia.

On second thought … petunias ~ although often considered “ordinary” because one sees them in so many places ~ are really quite extraordinary.

Now and then when I get an idea for a picture, I think, how ordinary. Why paint that old rock? Why not go for a walk instead? But then I realise that to someone else it may not seem so ordinary. ~ Georgia O’Keeffe

Just take a look at this week’s image up close. Notice how vibrant the color is? (No computer enhancement here).

Or spend a moment appreciating the deep, velvety shades of purple petunias or bright reds, or striped or ruffled varieties that decorate America’s civic centers and ponder their spectacular effect on these public spaces.

Or delight in the airy, carefree flutter of white petunias in a hanging garden basket.

Petunias are hearty, long lasting annuals native to Argentina. Mine have endured a very cold Northern California Spring, complete with hail, rainstorms, and blustery winds. At such times I peered out my kitchen window and worried if they’d survive the elements. Sure enough, they’re blooming now in the sun, as gorgeous and fragrant as ever.

Extraordinary!

Native to Chile, the Butterfly Bush (Buddleia globosa) ~ bearing clusters of lavender, white, soft pink, yellow, purple, or cranberry cone-shaped flowers ~ is sure to bring hummingbirds, bees, and butterflies to your garden.

Also called summer lilac, Buddleia (pronounced BUD-lee-ah), a genus of over 100 species and cultivars, grows ~ with liberal sunshine and well-drained soil ~ into a medium to large-sized shrub featuring silvery green, gracefully arching limbs.

When I first smelled its sweet-scented blossoms, I thought: Perfect for perfumes! Sure enough, Guerlain’s Parfum de Champs-Elysees (touted to evoke “a spring day in Paris”) contains ~ along with hints of rose and mimosa ~ essence of the Buddleia flower.

Mature buddleia in Wharfedale near Howgill, England. Photo courtesy of Robbo-Man, Creative Commons.

Many Buddleia species we see in European and North American gardens come from parts of China and Sikkim. And to think that still today horticulturists are searching the Himalayan foothills for new varieties.

This week’s image ~ above right ~ Young Butterfly Bush and Blossom.
Thumbnail image ~ Buddleia (close-up), artistic rendition.

Sikkim is a small Indian state bordering Nepal, Tibet, and Bhutan.

The common marigold. Or is it so common? Right off the bat it has three great things going for it:

1. an attractive name ~ suggesting merry and gold;
2. a musky, pungent scent; and
3. vibrant color.
   

This burnt crimson and yellow blossom in my garden astonished me with its boldness. Ah, so this is where royal designers found their inspiration when fashioning heraldic shields and crests! On second thought, it could be the idea behind some of the more outrageous umbrellas we spot on the beach during the summer. Or better yet, the marigold’s colors ~ summoned from childhood imagination ~ mirror the vivid stripes of Cinderella’s footman’s fine regalia.

The 4th great thing about the marigold is that it encourages the mind to playfulness and creativity. But who would have guessed that ~ right off the bat?!!

This week’s image ~ above right ~ Harlequin Marigold.
Thumbnail image by Swami Stream, Creative Commons.

Reflecting on how memory of certain flowers is interlaced with distinct moments in life, I acknowledge dogwood (Cornus florida): Spring 2001, when we traveled with our younger son to Yosemite National Park – a time when abundant yellow-hued dogwood adorned the valley; Spring 2002 and 2003, when a magnificent, wide-armed pink dogwood off Zayante Road in Felton became the favorite backdrop for seasonal family photos; and Spring 2004, when, strolling along Robles Lane in Bonny Doon with my dear friend Laura (sadly lost to cancer two years ago), we came upon a single white dogwood tree, magically glowing in a shady grove of old redwood and spruce.

How apt that dogwood is known not only for its lovely flower bracts, but also for its hard, silica-free wood, which is used for weaver’s shuttles.

A dogwood is blooming in the garden just now. What will it interlink in memory? That Spring came very late in 2010. That its rose-colored blossoms were a joy to behold on those rainy-gray days in May.

This week’s image ~ Flowering Dogwood.
Thumbnail image ~ Dogwood of Zayante (detail).

… by any other name would smell as sweet. But what if its name were …

Helmut Schmidt?!

Yes, the Helmut Heinrich Waldemar Schmidt, Social Democratic politician and West Germany’s Chancellor from 1974 to 1982.

Introduced in 1979 by German rose breeder Reimer Kordes, Helmut Schmidt is a tea rose with rounded, fully double, buttery-yellow flowers that open from urn-shaped buds on nearly thornless stems. The plant can withstand damp weather better than most varieties and is resistant to black spot, mildew, and rust.

Kind of like its namesake … who at the age of 92 is alive and well, and continues to work as co-publisher of the weekly, Die Zeit, one of Germany’s best-selling quality newspapers.

This week’s image ~ above right ~ Yellow Tea Rose, Helmut Schmidt.
Thumbnail image ~ Helmut Schmidt (detail).

The title of this post is derived from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet:

JULIET:
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.