by the time it was late enough to see both, we were tired. saturn and the moon were supposed to be sharing close space in the night sky, but it was cloudy and we seriously needed to sleep. the show went on without us, somewhere behind the clouds a glorious celestial ballet.
and the universe carries on with universe stuff. our planet earth still rotates on its axis and moves through its elliptical revolution around the sun with gravity keeping us in check in the solar system. through no effort on our part, it all just happens.
but when the universe picks up high-powered binoculars and zeroes in on planet earth, i wonder about how it views what’s really going on. when the universe dons readers and looks at the fine print of what humanity is really doing to its mother earth and its inhabitants, i wonder if there is a sinking feeling, a loss of hope, gossamer strands of what-is-goodness floating off and off, sans gravity.
lucky for us that – despite insane efforts at denying climate change, an abhorrent lack of environmental responsibility, vicious bigoted and hideous genocidal initiatives, flippant care of wildlife and natural resources, what seems a staunch dedication to a lack of peace-on-earth – we – on this floating globe – somehow are granted another day.
it’s no surprise we’re tired. it’s no surprise a lot of people are tired.
the headline on the catalog page read: don’t just go somewhere. be somewhere.
i lounged in the gravity chair on our deck and looked up. just beyond the peaked roof of our house, inbetween the pine tree and our westneighbor’s tv antenna, with the wire that stretches across our driveway stretched right through it, there it was:
the clouds had drawn the sun. exactly like i would have done it had i had big fat sidewalk chalk in my hand and i was drawing on the breezy jet-streamed canvas of the sky: an arc for the sun, rays coming from the hot center. it was obvious, clear, pretty doggone cool.
i grabbed the phone to take a picture and, before it disappeared as if someone had lifted the cellophane on a magic slate, drew it to d’s attention. we were both a tiny bit giddy at this small gift in the sky.
and that’s how i want to live. being somewhere. in each moment.
with all the horrific going on, it is not hard to wonder about time limits on presence.
so – in addition to paying attention, to drawing attention, to downright attentiveness attention to all of that horrific – i’m going to pay attention, draw attention, be downright attentively attentive to being here.
i don’t honestly think that john lennon’s song needs much explanation or needs me to go on and on about my own yearning for a peaceful, compassionate world.
it’s the last two. the very last two jalapeño peppers. today or tomorrow we’ll make ann’s jalapeño poppers recipe and celebrate the crazy-abundant harvest of these two relatively small plants. their season is clearly over; there are no tiny flowers left, there are no miniature peppers. these plants are done producing. but, in a new discovery, i have found that we can overwinter these perennials (more easily sustained in warm climes) – if we bring them indoors before the first frost we can give them a headstart for next year.
last year we only had one plant. its harvest is what convinced us to have two this year. maybe next year it’ll be three. in these last years, we have discovered the equation of this garden – what we get out of this garden is a direct result of what we put into it. it – and the experience of it – remain part of us, for we have paid attention to it.
like artistry – if you follow the imperative – being true to who you are – and who you’ve been and who you are becoming – and not beholden to societal expectations or fiscal returns – its produce potential is crazy-abundant. amorphous, ethereal, it will shape and re-shape, build and break down, condense and stretch – you are feeding it always. in the quiet and in the noisy, in season and out-of-season, overwintering. it’s all fluid, continuous.
i wonder when i will compose again. sometimes i can feel it building – the tension of the imperative. on those days i walk into my studio and touch my piano. it’s just a gesture, an acknowledgement. but it counts. it connects me back and forward, both. it is perennial.
and i can see – they are one and the same – these jalapeños and my music.
“not even the tiniest perennial grows only to die. it comes back again and again when the season and the time is right.” (kate mcgahan)
planted in a barnwood planter – one that is split in half where the top half balances on the bottom half – I have been tending this mint all summer. we have used it in suntea all through these months. it’s made a few appearances in quinoa tabouli. and then.
then – all of a sudden – it went dormant. the stems were leggy and leafless. it seemed done. i snipped it all back, tossing the dried stems behind the potting stand, and i resolved to buy mint for the remainder of the suntea season. and then.
then – all of sudden – there it was. a few new sprigs and a few more. yesterday, i picked mint for the fresh jug of tea and took a few pictures of the new lush green leaves.
petsitter ann had told us to beware – that the mint would take over the garden were we to plant it in the ground. so we heeded her advice and chose this planter instead. i’ve already decided it will be the mint planter again next year. because we will surely need mint again next year.
we’ll need it so that we can watch its zealous growth – bursting from the very beginning, right out of the nursery pot.
we’ll need it for our cool tea, for our tabouli, for the zucchini parmesan pasta dish.
we’ll need it to gauge the hot sun and the water levels of our other plants – it responds to changes in weather and moisture, giving us good indicators for tending our other herbs as well.
we’ll need it to watch firsthand something that, well, just isn’t very fussy about stuff.
and we’ll need it to remind ourselves of the regenerative power of spirit – that even if something seems passé, even if something seems dried-up – done – out-of-season – even if something seems downright irrelevant – there is still an ever-lit pilot light.
supine (adjective) 2. failing to act or protest as a result of moral weakness…
the example given – of this word used in a sentence – was this: “they remained supine in the face of terrible wrongdoing.”
though there are many other adjectives (and nouns) i can think of to describe what is currently happening while this administration attempts to destroy this democracy – the complicity, the evil, the negligence, the capitulating, the out-and-out lawlessness – the word “supine” seems mighty relevant.
“who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? the shadow knows.“
in early october 2020 i wrote a blogpost and quoted this same line from this vintage radio show – the shadow. that show – from way back – the late 30s through the early 50s – stated “as you sow evil, so shall you reap evil“. watching our country reeling – in a voting cycle after four years spent in political hell – in the relatively early stages of the covid pandemic, i asked, “what now?“
it’s five years later and the (repeat) administration of this country has traveled further down the road of evil than i ever thought possible back then. and i ask, “what now?“
carlos ruiz zafon said, “some things can only be seen in the shadows.“
the shadow soul of our country – and its inhabitants – is on display.
we didn’t expect this when we planted the sweet potato that had grown hot pink tendrils in the wire basket hanging in the basement stairwell. we actually had no idea what to expect. but we had a couple planters and some good dirt, no expectations and – importantly – curiosity.
we watched this planter – literally – every single day. we noted as the pink shoots stood tall through the dirt and then grew the tiniest leaves. i took photographs as it began to grow; it seemed exponentially enthusiastic. we were enchanted.
we still are.
there are now three – actual potatoes – planted in two different planters just off the deck.
and every day we go out our back door we pass by these sweet potato plants. every day we are greeted with their heart-shaped leaves. every day, hearts.
curiosity is a funny thing. it would have been easier to toss the sweet potatoes that had gone beyond or, if not too far gone, cut off the sprouts and check the rest for spoilage. but we were curious. these little guys had sprouted in what seemed like overnight in our stairwell. with plants having that kind of zealous intention and fortitude, we wondered what might happen if we planted them.
this tiny observance – paying attention to these tiny pink sprouts – brought us on a journey a good deal of the summer. we watched, we researched, we celebrated these sweet potatoes.
most of all, we learned.
it’s not to be underestimated – curiosity.
its energy begets more energy.
there’s no telling what can happen when curious people get together and set no limits on their questioning, their poking and prodding, their research and experimentation, their inquisitiveness.
“the mind that opens to a new idea never returns to its original size.” (Albert Einstein) “the important thing is not to stop questioning. curiosity has its own reason for existing.”
this brings me joy – stepping into this tiny little corner garden. each year it has been a place to wonder, to learn, to dream, to envision bounty. tiny as it is, it is a place of abundance and, even as autumn falls, i cherish its every bit of 28 square feet.
the parsley and the basil are still producing – they graced our homemade tomato soup last night. there are a few jalapeños left, still growing. the dill has dulled; the mint has faded. the cilantro has bolted time and again, despite my best efforts to convince it otherwise. the cherry tomatoes are ripening on the vine and the rosemary is a small tree. i suspect the rosemary will make its way inside for the winter. it all makes me think of next year’s planting – adding sweet potatoes in planters, more tomatoes, maybe a few other vegetables. it’s all been a lesson in embracing something new. it is a tiny space of zen.
we are considering some changes as we look around our house. in the cleaning-out mode, less and less is necessary. clearing away a child’s desk, a lateral file, unused appliances or electronics…it’s all fodder for the space we need – particularly in these times – for cherished quiet, for serenity. i am finding there is a direct connection between the more clear space and the more breath. it will take some time, as it has taken decades to acquire so many things. but we have time and, i believe, we have the wherewithal to go through our house, room by room, and invite in a sagefilled peace.
it’s really all about intention. though we do not live in a vast home and are not surrounded by vast acreage, we bring an intention to our home that is purposeful. as we move from room to room, slowly parsing out the unnecessary from the necessary or the wanteds, slowly replacing items with other items or replacing items with air-and-space, we tend to how it feels. we want to create a space in which we feel comforted, supported, valued. we want to create a space in which others feel comforted, supported, valued. we want a place filled with soul and acceptance of the inbetween moments in all of life.
today we’ll make a batch of pesto. as i look at the basil plants, i figure it will likely be the last batch this season. oh, there will be a bit for our homemade margherita pizzas, but not in real quantity. so we’ll go slow. snipping and rinsing, chopping and grating. we’ll talk about our garden – truly, for the umpteenth time. we’ll relish the pungent aroma of freshly-picked basil in the house.
and we’ll stand in the kitchen – looking at each other – with tears in our eyes – astonished at our good fortune.
reverse threading 