6.5.13 Plantlings and Fishlings and Now Alone Herons

     
                                              Aaaccckkk, so good to have all the rain on and off, certainly. but our CT river outwaters are working overtime to breed mosquitoes, and all those starving females !! Have to wear a raincoat and layers and spray essential oils on you every 10 minutes to avoid being eaten alive.     
                                            
                                             Still, its that intoxicating early gardening phase, where you have ALL the ideas and ALL the dreams; where you look around you, and what you see is what you imagine will happen, not what is actually there. 

                                            I love this phase. I pretend amnesia of the frequent third phase, where you have successfully mulched a bit more than the previous year, but still, the awful multi-rooted-where-ever-its-greedy-little-legs-can-reach grass begins to DOMINATE. 

                                            The mosquitoes begin really to get tiring, as you parry early sunny mornings in hope of darting between them to get gardening done...to afternoon attempts,to forgetting all about any possibility of sitting out at night and relishing the loveliness of what is growing so well. 

                                             Then we have the furtive early morning yogurt-container-with-soapy-water-in-hand routine, as you sneak up upon the Japanese beetles and pop them with great gardener agility into the soapy water, to die...quickly. I stand there, popping them in, so many of them in multiple mating postures, saying 'sorry, sorry, and sorry', as I go. 

                                              This year, I finally actually gave appropriate plant food. Go figure. To the acid loving Azaleas and Mountain Laurels and HOlly and Bayberry. To the Roses, who have exploded before my eyes. To the other plants and little trees, all fed and greedily growing so fast.

                                                In the meantime, the zillion plantlings in the little tiny six packs I so optimistically and greedily planted are growing so fast, as I get bits of weeding done here, then there, beginning to think about where on earth I will put them, or, yes, who might want flats of these huge tall pink and white and purple zinneas, or 1,000 Cosmos, 4 kinds,  or how about the 100 perennial Salvias, and better yet, those sure-to-be-delicious 1 million lupine babies......oh my. And so much more. 

                                                  Possibly, gardening is a condition, or even a disease, where we manifest both our joy of mixing our feet and hands deep into the soil, have conversations with plants and insects, sit back on our heels and watch as the baby Phoebes consider leaping from the nest, observe the Broadwing Hawk announce their territory overhead, meet up with the old toads who have lived here for years and escaped the intermittent gardner snake's jaws. The chipmunks finally making themselves known, coming up to windows to catch the eye and ire of the four felines.

                                                 If this is a condition,I accept it with grace and gratitude. Somehow what most of us come to learn, over time, is that the actual appearance of the garden, despite that joy, comes sauntering in a distant second...to the actual mindful timelessness that seeps into us while crouched upon hands and knees, ferrying objects and wheelbarrows back and forth, wiping sweat and rain and dust from our foreheads, puttering about saying hello and checking in on all the small places, and then sitting , swatting those self same mosquitoes, while drinking in the experience of each lovely spot that somehow becomes its own place.

                                                 A few years ago, I had my Acupressure/Herbalist offices here, one in the cottage to teach bodyworkers, and one in the house, so we could have multiple Apprentices seeing multiple clients, and I would go from one room to another, supporting and teaching and showing and working. There was one chipmunk who was fond of climbing up into the Mountain Laurel next to the house,  who would regularly sit and watch, undeterred, as clients were worked upon. I cannot imagine what it seemed like to them, or how they became so interested, but there they were, day after day, perched, turning their head this way and that, like a tiny dog listening to a small song.

                                                 Now, each evening, dogs and I escape to the river, the old dog relishing one small thoughtful walk, snuffling and making all the rules, then brought back home so that I and the German Shepherd pup, Dante can have a more vigorous stroll, not too long for a pup who will be enormous, but enough. 
              

                                                  All along the river, on different days, are different fishlings feeding on the surface, the river glistening and moving like a living thing, as insects swarm above it, an occasional big splash of big fish probably chowing down...on fishlings, all of them streaming fast down the river in its powerful current. 

                                                 The Great Blue Heron couple of many years, who had nest after nests of beautiful babies to be seen feeding on the rivers edge by themselves as the summer came to an end, was sighted last fall after one injured their wing, in distress alongside the river's path. Now there is only one solitary and beautiful bird, seen daily by us all, irrevocably returning to the same area as they have for years, at night, minus their much beloved mate.  

                                                Dante and I begin our stroll back toward the car, numerous people stopping to admire his stand-up ears, his fluffy baby self, as he slowly grows taller with each passing day, greeting each and every person delightedly, as if the whole world was explicitly for his delight alone. 

                                                 Years ago I was in a room with so many two year olds. And as someone began to applaud, each and every one turned and fully believed the applause, of course, was for them. I loved that, that not-crushed-yet expectation that any applause would be especially...for you.

6.1.13 June Lust

     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.