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.

5.30.13 There She Was, Everywhere At Home

How can I describe how I came upon her, walking quietly in her wooded neighborhood, one late afternoon?

Somewhat lost in the backwoods of Shutesbury, unable to discern one direction from another, no road signs, virtually no inhabitants, as a brief torrential storm began, we drove slowly past a small overgrown cottage …peering out car windows through thick sheets of  rain and the sudden summer wind at  two adult Wild Turkeys, and their tiny clutch of babies, huddled beneath a old crabtree.  

Up one pot-holed road, down another, we veered round corners, gently making our way, no rush to  our  destination.

Finally the sky cleared, and we were surrounded by all living things wetted and thirst quenched, the wetlands and ponds numerous and wild, a blue heron here, wild ducks there, as we slowly drove along the rutted road.

I won't forget her face, as we came upon her, turning slowly toward our approaching car,  long of powerful sinew, jeans and a sleeveless shirt, gangly huge dog loping by her side, her gait of inimical indifference .

Pulling up alongside, who were we, slowing and excusing ourselves, asking our whereabouts?

And look upon us she did,  gaze certain and unyielding as she took us in, nut brown hair cropped inveterately, the two slowing their pace.

And politely she did give us direction, standing now solid and sure before us , for just one economical moment.

I did see her, then.Everywhere at home.

There in her forest and its ancient dirt roads, her canine companion looking guardedly in the car window, a warning in the dark grave eyes, until we thanked her, and proceeded down the road. 

Looking back for a moment, there, the dog did then relax, returning to her side in communion, as they continued once again.

As we resumed our own way, I found myself seared with the depth of her grey eyes. The underscore of stories upon her face, her limbs, her movements. The wisdom of her four footed guardian.

And, too, the stippled scars covering the length of  her beautiful arms; hundreds of age-old slices. Each with its own history, its own song, its own telling of a vital time.  You could almost hear, against all of the rules, each time with its own ancient call and respond. 

This so many, sadly, discover, in their distress, and then so many know not of.

For there are those who harm and injure, and create this necessity. And then deny and push off to another land. Leaving behind the object of their tragic injuries, and all of the unspoken songs and tales and times.

Yet too, here, all were healed. Every moment expressed, secrets told, and somehow over time, not repeated again. So the scars and their fissures seemed replete with evidence of a badge of survival. A brandishing, in those soothing, isolated woods, of certainty, of restoration.

Mended, beautifully, the story told, the song sung, the woman somehow triumphed, and possibly now become whole

 Now safe, now accompanied by her protective companion, deep in these soothing woods.  Arms bared to the trees and the storms and the wind and the heavens, singing their song, and at times, to the occasional passerby.

“Here I am”, I heard as we  drove past,” Witness me everywhere at home.”

Years ago, yet I remember her still.

5.11.13 If He Was A Weeping Man

If he was a weeping man , he would have wept;

come to find himself seated heavily upon

one worn village stoop

His hoarded sorrow tossed across shoulders

of streaming passerbys, now weighted, now unawares

................................................

How is it grief can be stumbled upon, then

willingly imbibed in some darkening gloom -

then pressed inside, the cork twisted

this way and that, shut up tight

And how can it be that even those 

who have sat with gradient loss

and struggled with its inadvertent weight 

are so unable to tender another's ?

………………………………………………

So, here he sits, hours passing

Grief finally making its circuitous path

untangling each sweet

remnant of his heart

Far above, massive clouds

heave all of their violet burden,

unbidden, across wind fraught  skies

Soon enough to give way

and ,with inevitability, rain

falls, inviolate, to the

parched, broad lands below

....................................................

And too, what was past and harrowing now does

descend, his face registering surprise, the slow

torrent parrying down his cheeks

arrant weight gone, obviant gaze stricken

instead with the honesty of grief

The story ends; the refrain lingers

your vision caught glancing out your back window

uneasily checking , sudden, uncertain,

for here lie your own skies

Arrant- blatant, notorious

Obviant- obvious but sarcastic at an unclear level

4.28.13 Jeans, Laughter and The Ethers

Saturday, I sat down at the computer to look at pants. Pants for work, and initially for a birthday celebration for one of my kids next week. Couple of shirts. There was this big sale at this one company I buy clothes from. I'm kind of a one horse town; one food store, one clothes store. That's enough for me. Problem was, the pants were either long floppy polyester things, stiff blue jeans, or....white....jeans. I looked at other stores too, and same deal.Crap.Ok,so I decided, I can handle white pants,why not.

Problem is, there were so unbelievably many...can you say that...kinds of white pants and especially white jeans. I do not enjoy shopping. I enjoy palpating and figuring out Livers. enjoy aligning spines. I enjoy my kids and friends and clients. Taking photographs.I enjoy four footeds and nature. But naw, not shopping. 

I tried, God knows. I tried hard to be enthusiastic with my children, especially in adolescence, bringing them places with their friends, me sitting and reading while they were 13 and pretending they were 'alone', while I kept watch out of the corner of my eye. In a few years, I was the official 'shopping ally' and worked hard to learn to attentively watch and listen and do all the 'Uh huh's and the "Oh, yeah, I can see that" stuff, holding the choices in my arms as the kid tried stuff on and then came out to endlessly discuss the merits, all of which I worked hard at. 

I worked hard at pleasantly and happily walking here to there, examining interminably the choices. I once offered to get my adult kid black sandals for work,as their dog had, um, nibbled upon theirs. One hour. Yup. I mean, how many black sandals can there be??? 

I grew up in a time where I was brought to one WASPY store with my five brothers, told to stand still, and then clothing was selected for each kid. Oh, I had clothes. I had food. I had a place to live. And my clothes were scratchy kilt wool skirts almost, and to me, almost dragging on the floor they were so LONG.Horrible scratchy woolen button down sweaters. Not the most fashionable item even then. Loafers. Knee socks. 

I truly thought life was going to be one long boring clothing experience, until I turned 15 and the world opened up - and I realized there were all kinds of clothes all over the nation. All over the world. Since the beginning of time. Blew me away. I was still not a clothes horse, and never would be, but I was so relieved. 

Still, I stuck by jeans and T shirts and little biddy skirts you could make out of your old jeans, and down jackets in a nice brown so that you could sit on the floor and the dirt would not show. Dr. Scholls sandals in summer and winter, then with socks. You could walk on your toes, climb mountains,walk across deep puddles. Great. And, for some reason, green rubber boots. Man,they seemed so simple and manageable, and in those days, was a perfectly acceptable fashion non-statement.

As time went on, there were children to spend money on, but also suddenly interesting clothes places. Not locally then, but places that had 25 colors and each name of a color was something so obtuse you couldn't figure out how they got to that weird name. But clothing became more interesting, and before a lot of stores, Victoria's Secret, besides lots of underwear, had really interesting clothes that you could actually wear, even as a mother. And in those days, at least where I lived, mothers were supposed to be a bit under the radar with their clothing.

We once ordered me a velvet top and matching skirt for winter holidays, and for fun, got a couple of underwear.Normal nice underwear. The box was delivered to the house, and my then 2 and 3 year olds ran to rip open the box, a very exciting proposition regardless of the contents. Out was dragged the beautiful new top, the shirt, and then the oldest held up a pair of underwear that was remarkably....small. They held it up in the air between all of us and said "Mom, what happened to the BUTT?"  Turned out they had sent me...a thong. 1991. My husband and I laughed so hard we fell over,and still laugh today.

So yesterday I am realizing I am too tired to go around to local places, which I would like to do, and I pull out catalogs to see if anything else is truly possible aside from this confusing array of white jeans, and no, it seems not. I examine them and the intricacies, nothing I would ever want to spend time doing you must know, and each white jean, believe it or not, seems very different from the other. I have no idea who all these people ARE who differentiate so carefully between white jeans.

I look at bigger photos online. I look at the views. I give up. I call the company.

This very nice person answers, and I ask if they can help me. I tell her what's up. She says, "Sure. Give me the first item number." So I do, and we both sit there talking about the number of pockets and cotton versus spandex proportions. Then the second. Then the third. They all have different words that would lead one to believe there is something significantly different about them. I can't see why.

We hone down the characteristics gradually. I say "These pants look looser than those." She says "Maybe it's just the size of the model wearing the pants and nothing intentional." Uh.

We finally get some differences, me thinking I have never in my life spent this much time thinking about clothing, and then she says "Remember if you put them in the dryer, they will get smaller." I say "I never put them in the dryer. They last longer if I hang them up to dry." She says "I know, I never do either, but sometimes my husband does, because he thinks he's being helpful with the laundry." I say "Oh,yeah, and then forget it, right? That's it for those." She says "Don't  you know it! Kills me!" I say " Can you teach him to hang them up? I hang everything up. Now my husband hangs everything up. I told him his clothes will last longer and he won't have to iron." She says " Forget it, he'll never do that." WE laugh, and talk about pants that are loose enough to be comfortable but close fitting enough that you don't have 'elephant butt', and laugh some more.

And then we go on, talking about this and that for awhile, and I forget who she is and that she is at this company, and instead we are sitting together, invisible, far away, talking about weather and clothes and family and line-dried clothes and finally it's time to say goodbye, so we do. She says "Take care, and good luck with your pants!" I say " Thank you so much for your help. You have a nice day!" She says " You do too!"

And I go back to the computer, wishing I had more energy and it was a store down the way, which actually are all huge chain stores anyway, but still....and I pick one white jean that is so far distant from any jean of my youth you could hardly call both of them jeans, and I purchase it. Send the little message through the ethers. Send my money through the ethers too. Close down the computer. Check my phone with a message from the ethers. 

I think about the woman sitting at work, laughing with me about young women and tight pants and what jeans were like long ago, laughing and talking over the ethers while I imagine her laundry room, and she imagines mine, and we laugh, voices moving through phone ethers, thinking of the very first phones and how magical and ridiculous they seemed, then how convenient, then how so many were certain they would ruin humankind. Then the fax machines. Wow. That was something. And now, we have so much stuff wandering through the electromagnetic ethers, surrounding the globe, infiltrating our genes, carrying conversations of laughing women, talking over jeans, of all things, and then on to another day.