4.1.14 Chasing The New Moon Home

4.2.14 Forest Born

      Yesterday we cut a bit of a trail out back, into the woods, down the foothill, so that going there regularly is more accessible .
        We worked a bit removing some old barbed wire that is rusted and such a danger to wildlife. Slow and steady wins the getting small things done.
      Today I cooked Quinoa, beets, turnip, tofu and greens, and , ball in hand, Dante and I head out the back and through the path . Learning the markers like you did as a kid- if you were lucky enough to be forest born, which I was.
     Hang a right at the struggling young juniper, right again at the still barbed wire encased old Maple, and there it is. His digging hole, my sitting place, the outwaters stretched out before us far far below.
      The ice further receded since we sat out and watched the sun set last night- one variation after another of golds and pinks and blues, through the still leafless trees and the just awakening insects, birds and creatures.
        Today, We have quiet warm sun filtered woods- the surrounding distant hillsides still deep blue and beautifully visible til spring warms and welcomes the true explosion of life-giving green.

4.4.14 Settled Well

Last day of the surprise week off. 

Rejuvenated and settled well into the present moment. 

A meander at the state hospital and beloved lands and river after a K. Drop off,
 Dante racing and wrestling with dogs ,

 all of them tumbling happily in the Icey Spring waters. 

Arriving back home mud encrusted and ready for a dog and cat filled napping time. 

4.4.14 Almost Every Year

      A few years back, what with kids moved out and all, I began having the chance to notice when, in Springtime and Fall, we would go for too long without rain, and plants would begin to do badly and die. Before that, I just always assumed that watering took place when everything warmed up, summer time and all. Droughts aside.
       Today I began noticing the soil, the plants, picked up pinches and rubbed them between my fingers. Got out the hoses now that snow is all but gone, to preempt some of my favorite, yet well mulched, hostas from biting the dust, etc.
      But as the afternoon wore on, the skies went from a bit dark, not uncommon here in spring, to darker, and finally sprinkling began....blessed rain, falling and every plant drinking a bit.
       The sound I now hear on the road far out front is an intermittent car going by, the wheels whirring that car-on-wet-country-road sound, so blessed here, when drought is harming so many many places.
      I am thinking of the Ruffed Grouse out in the brush, with their one beautiful striped baby underwing,
        of the courting birds going about gathering materials, now that things are more worked out as to who is with who, to select areas and build nests.
         Almost every year, there is a Red Wing Blackbird male who tries tries to talk his mate into nesting in a birdhouse attached to our house, calling and calling, while she persistently calls back, cajoling him, sweetening him, patiently waiting him out, til, finally, he gives in, and goes to the site she has selected, and settles down to this year's family life once again.

4.3.14 Developing A Sense of Place

     Now that there is a path at least into the woods , instead of struggling through prickly grabbing vines and thorns, the ease of deciding to take a non-hungry-sick- ticks- in-field walk is so simple . Out the back door with ball in his mouth, Dante knows the way we have set, and we wander down the foothill toward animal pathways, observing the arrival of ducks on the melting outwaters, as I stand, listening and watching the tick laden lands far below . 

     I imagine all the various turtles waking from their deep mud underwater sleep , knowing that soon enough, they will be basking in the hot summer sun, strewn upon fallen trees that stretch out over the waters. That subtle sound as they detect your approach, and slip quietly into the waters.
Soon enough many types of duck and geese and fox and coyote , as well as skunk, possum and raccoon, will be tending to their offspring, just as that Ruffed Grouse is to their one survivor of their clutch.
     

Come warmer weather, the Fisher Cats may grace our tall old Maples in hot evenings, screeching their way to a good meal for their own young ones.

Dante came upon someone's recent urine, still wet upon a log, sniffing with great interest, as we both leaned down to take a curious look. He is increasingly aware of the fact that he lives somewhere with many neighbors, and less alarmed by the sights and sounds of forest life.
     More and more small animals move swiftly to elude his surprising hunting abilities , as we make our way into the woods. Helpfully, the forest floor is covered with dry , noisy dead leaves, so our approach is not one of great stealth.
     Being outside daily wherever we live- downtown Baltimore, or a New England woods, grows such a familiarity and sense of place so quickly, like lunching with a particularly interesting co-worker each day. 

     Going round where we live keeps us in the loop of seasonal change and the passage of time and days of our lives , as our very cells notice and respond to each subtle change in light, temperature, and seasonal shift .
     It truly is a profound way of ensuring that we don't end up wondering where that month or that part of our life 'went'. Because there is no question . We were present for each and every day.

4.1.14 Ah, Maybaskets for All

At the age of 30, I began a May Day tradition with my first child , that continued through the childhoods of all three – that of secretly making and secretly distributing May Baskets.

The day before would find us baking little cookies or brownies, and wandering out into meadows and down lanes, to collect forsythia and our own tulips and the very beginnings of wild or left behind bushes and tree blossomings, carefully helping each small child cut the stems, and place them in the glass jar of water we brought with us.

Back at home, we would begin the construction phase, colored sheets of paper spread across the floor, precut by myself until they grew older, the body of the basket with snips up the sides, the handle, and the stapler.

Each one would pick various colored baskets and handles , decorate them with markers  or crayons, and then bring them to me to staple together the sides and the handles.

Out would come the treats, as we carefully placed a few in wax paper, twisted, and held. Flowers would be chosen, argued over, struggled over, and carefully set in small plastic bags secured at the top.

Come morning, the excitement would build, as we would have to rise early to fill the baskets, and the leave to sneak about, before school or eventually homeschool, as each child chose where to stop and deliver their baskets.

Initially, my oldest and I walked about our Montague neighborhood,  wiggling with suppressed delight as he tip toed up each walk and placed the basket on the doorknob.

We had known this neighborhood for years, and he had made a practice of visiting many of the homes on the small , crooked one-way street.

The bus garage next door with the friendly conversant drivers. The garage owner who lived down from the garage and our own home, whose donkey brayed awake the neighborhood each morning, and traditionally on Halloween, would dress as an old , bent over man, mask on with bumpy face and strange teeth, as he held out a plastic glove hand to children, all mushy and filled with icewater!

The older couple who disliked people of other colors and religions and sexual preferences but who invited him into their home to bake with them and help mow the lawn.

Their next door neighbor, a friend of ours, who edited a feminist separatist rag.

The middle school superintendent and his family at the end of the street, who shared their Jewish traditions with him.

The older couple with many children who invited him to help pick and eat their berries.

The mother of a brother-in-law, who always sat out a dusk on her small front porch, as we made our evening walk round the block;  the bats elegantly swinging through the trees as the fog rose from the stream down at the bottom of the pastures.

On May Day morning, round we then  would sneak, in the cool early morning, as he placed  baskets on one doorknob after another, of all these friends of his,  and quickly snuck away.

We would then leave time to drive by his grandparents, as I hid in the car, and he snuck up to the front door, one time to have them come out in confusion, as we raced away. And on to his Aunt, where her outside dog would protest the quick arrival and departure, so early, as we left, wondering if the dog would be the one to enjoy the delivery.

Myself, I was thinking about the history of May Day. Of workers rights. Of traditions elsewhere . Of  Maypoles and celebrations. Of infusing in my children the excitement of giving to others when others knew not where the gift came from. And it was true- they grew up loving the secret of it all.

Oh, we would sometimes make a big exhausting batch for their classes or daycare, just for the fun of it, and possibly to remind the world of an old and wonderful tradition.

When homeschooling later on, we would need to drive about to deliver the now more elaborately decorated baskets, as we no longer lived within walking distance of most.

But years later,  at a family funeral, we stopped by to say hello to Mrs. Newton,  who had been our neighbor so  long ago. She looked at us quizzically; cocked her head, and said “YOU were the ones who left the beautiful May Baskets. Because when you moved away, they stopped appearing. Oh, how I loved the surprise of them- all hand made and lovely.”

And my oldest looked up at me, smiling, remembering the making and the sneaking and the leaving and the giving in the early misted mornings of May.

3.26.14 Passed Blithely By

Still, at 61, I am caught unawares, 

when circumstances seem to happen to us,

 and we manage the wisdom to walk about ,

 holding the emotions of disappointment and grief, 

experiencing them - versus shielding ourselves from them. 

And that very willingness to do so lands us in a new place, 

Full of surprise and appreciation at the turn of events , 

which reveal themselves as strangely beneficent. 

As something we would not have chosen ; 

and blinded to, would have blithely passed by altogether.