Monet's Fruit Tree with Climbing Rose

After touring Monet's garden, hours, we went to the shops behind his home, at bottom of pic below, and bought sandwiches.  The day was too fine, experiencing his home/garden too intense,  we sat under an ancient fruit tree, it's in the watercolor below, in a stupor.
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More, the fruit tree was ancient, with an equally ancient climbing rose threading thru it, in peak bloom.



Boring enough tale, yet to anyone speaking the language of gardenese, tale of a lifetime.
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We travel the globe for these moments.  And plant them at home, the luckiest among us have hundreds of gardens to plant them in.  Client gardens.  My wealth lies not in the bank, but in my career.
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Walking my sweet garden, 30 years here, has me in tears daily now.  Especially the moments ahead of peak gloaming.  There is no word in English, probably in another language for this, pulling in with the eyes, nose, and skin trying to imprint more than they can take in onto my DNA.
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Selfishness, of a peculiar sort, fear, hunger for more, and the feeling of never being able to return, must learn, educate, retain, sort, deduce, elucidate, sense all of the ephemeral that has passed, translate, know that it will be the soul understanding the language, not my head, the muse, erudite, able to create what the gardenese clearly speaks.
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Yesterday, above, in my garden.  Climbing rose into the Crape Myrtle.
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Best part of this pic?  I'm standing in the street with a dozen working class houses intruding.  Yet for this ephemeral fragment, gardenese owns the space.  My house is behind this tapestry hedge.  In this moment you don't know the location, acreage, era or reality.  I am fluent in gardenese.  Looks a bit wild, yet totally designed, rustic.  And you see the role Monet played.  Hint of another story, in Italy, in the pic too.
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My soul would have withered, living here, without my garden.   Yet with my garden, though I've traveled the globe on the hunt for historic gardens, there is a bedrock epiphany, I travel farthest in my garden.
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Like the story from Dr. Zhivago, this talent for extravagant travel within my garden, 'It is a gift.'
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Soon, I'll be living an hour east of my garden.  Like Karen Blixen, after leaving, I will never return.  In my new garden, I know I can return any time.
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Garden & Be Well,   XO Tara
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Top pic via Trip Advisor.