After my daughter
and boyfriend and Pitty leave this Sunday afternoon, I fall , besotted, into
garden immersion. The nice white sneakers my older son gave me, with visions of
some pristine mama jogging down the road...gradually fill with dirt and mud
and hose water. . I have been very lustful and greedy, unable to use only some seeds from
each packet, so I go and spawn millions of small new plants..which will
fit...somewhere.
Filled I am with that June lust, in my blood and spreading slowly over the hills. . The first summer storm comes up over the range, splashing its wild-looking clouds across the sky, that in turn wildly race by, tossing about heat lighting and mumbling possibility.
. . While I pitchfork here
and dig there and welcome three false indigos from the local garden store, and the two tiny hollies that
wintered over in the kitchen, now delightedly introduced to the real life of
outside...of rain and mist and the endlessness of real soil instead of tiny
pot. . You
remember plants converse, right? That trees assist each other. I can't recall right now the name of that wonderful
woman and scientist who finally utilized machines to prove what we knew all
along. . So i say (needlessly, silly human, nevertheless )..Holly , meet Heuchera. Heuchera, Holly, as I dig happily into the land, my fingernails caked, knees thick with dirt. . The air crackles: I look
up to see the swift moving skies, the serenade of some parent Hawk calling
their young, the sweep of the Phoebe darting back and forth as they feed their
nestlings in the moss and mud creation of a nest, under the eaves and upon the
outside light. . Rain finally begins, politely at first, as I continue my crazed
happiness- children grown and happily gone, partner off on an adventure. . I am drinking in the solitude, the freedom of choice, the deliciousness
of following, for the first time in my life, after parenting siblings and children, my own simple lead. . Pouring luscious seedling soil into more and more little packets of
pots, I spill more seed, pressing down gently, the German Shepherd pup watching the lightning, unfazed. The inevitable downpour is now
approaching on the heels of the heightened wind , which stirs the trees across the
field like capricious , stumbling dominoes. All along the range the gusts race through the valley, and then on down to the
river. . My young beloved canine's long puffy baby hair begins to soak, as he
sits, assuming that if I am out here, so shall he be. . We take a break,
getting some freshly cooked chicken pieces, and
off leash he is!!
Heel, sit, come, stay. I am giddy with his 10 week old brilliance, as we briskly stroll about the back yard, as this welcome summer storm properly ramps up. . I finally bring the little one in, then
rush back out to rip out weeds and pop yearning Spikenards and Elecampagnes and Valerians into the soil, their cramped white rootlets poked and prodded,
then settled into their long awaited home of rich river soil. The lighting laces the sky, silent but
visually explosive, as a beautiful array
of spiders rush away with their tender
egg sacks in hand, alarmed by my ardent weeding, beetles of all colors
following suit. . Now the downpour arrives, wetting everyone, giving freely to the thirsty water
table, cleansing the air, the sky bright pink eventually, as I gaze at filthy
hands, mud encrusted jeans, dirt streaked face, hair soaked with mosquito-hating
essential oils, standing in the midst of the torrent passing slowly through the neighborhood. . In the
deepening nightfall, I watch waves of rain billow across the field, through Aspens
and Sassafras and Sumac. . Finally inside, I drop sopping sneakers at the door, and further in, create a pile of
sodden, fragrant clothes. My beloved old dog stiffly comes round the corner, drawn by the earth soaked smells, snuffling with delight. . . The pup now insists upon taking a shower with whomever is in there, sleeping in the tub in between times, or wrapping himself around the cool toilet so often that I obsessively wash it daily. So, tonight, Into the shower he launches himself, relishing the wonder of splashing water everywhere, me laughing at what a
funny small, soon to be enormous, boy he is, joining us here in this melee of
an ark of four footeds. How different, at 60, to watch some small new member of the family feel the wind for the first time, find himself strangely drawn to pulling his paws through the dirt, over and over, until the cool soil beneath is sniffed and laid upon, in some brand new delight. . Outside the row of kitchen
windows that peer out into the distance, the storm has now passed. The garden and hills and live things are wet and
shining in the bright sky sunset, pink and singing to the last.
No comments:
Post a Comment