A single spot of yellow in St. Timothy’s garden, the most blooming place on my walk these days. A four petaled (though it looks like more) bright yellow flower not in the main garden, but outside the wall where cars drive by. It strikes me as interesting because, like a number of succulent flowers, it seems to grow and announce itself until replaced by another, and another. In other words, it has a stem that flowers and reflowers until it just wears out. Beneath it you can see the row of pods forming from past iterations. There would seem to be no end to the ways Nature has devised to facilitate reproduction. Behind it are other flowering plants with reddish orange spikes pushing up through a bed of unkempt leaves and stems. I find myself slowing down, not that I walk that fast, as I approach the church, never knowing quite what to expect. The garden seems like the work of enthusiasts, as opposed to the work of gardeners or landscape architects or designers, though I have seen what looks like gardeners now and then. Someone has an idea to plant something, and it gets planted. Pride radiates outward from every plant, but there remains very little in the way of overview and masterplan. It’s an acquired taste, I suspect, something that Father “Ed” seems to have mastered. It has a distinct churchlike feel. Beauty interspersed with chaos.