every day now the mourning dove shows up. all by itself, it sits on the wire. not cooing or preening at all, it appears to be waiting, waiting.
something about this lone dove tugs at me every time i witness its silent vigil. it feels as if it has lost its life partner and its perch – high above the backyards it can see – gives it a place from which to search or from which to be quiet and pine. though i know that it could be acting as a sentinel for a nest or simply resting with an eye to predators, there is something else i can feel.
i’ve whispered up to this mourning dove – that i see it, that i am privy to its vigil and that i honor its steadfastness, its constancy. i tell it that i am witness to what seems like its sadness. i hardly know if it helps – or if the dove can hear me or understand me. but being here and watching and aware, it feels like i am honoring its story.
it is not unlike that which we could do for each other. all each others, regardless. if only we were to sit on metaphoric high wires quietly and listen to each other, honor each others’ stories, be witness to joy or pain, hold one another tenderly. if only.
scrolling through IG i came across a post with a series of memes – positive words we’ve all heard before, but all succinctly placed as text boxes in appealing photographs that tug at our attention. words like: “be grateful that you slipped through the hands of people who had no f-ing idea how to hold you.” and “i hope you heal from things that nobody apologized for.”
there were more – i took a couple screenshots but then just became lost in this slew of (some really touching) reminders – things we all need to hear from time to time, things that – in the right moment – have the power to make us stop and think, lessen any ever-present pain, stop any perseverating we might be doing that might be harming us or taking away precious time of which we have not-enough.
it was the music that did me in. judah earl’s sand drawing was playing as the soundtrack music for these thoughtful emotion-elicitors. it was all at once striking and familiar. atmospheric and haunting, it reminded me of arvo part’s spiegel im spiegel with a soaring cello line and supportive simple piano. omg. just gorgeous.
the other day we passed by a couple who in the past have deeply hurt us. though they had posed as good friends back then, they were involved in some serious backstabbing behavior, sheer hypocrisy to their stated belief system, the antithesis of what they (piously) claim to be. it pains me to think about it. as we passed, the female of the couple cheerfully said, “hi guys,” as if nothing had ever transpired, as if they had never been betraying to the bonds of friendship of which they had pretended to have.
it was a gut punch for me.
i completely ignored them as they passed within a foot or so on the sidewalk. it was strange to be in such close proximity to someone who had never apologized for their wrongdoing, had never even offered contrition, clearly never had any remorse whatsoever. i imagine that you have had an experience or two like this as well…the reason for my sharing.
it was a couple days later that the reassuring memes came across my screen.
the timing of the universe is sometimes exquisite. it gave me time enough to ponder what had happened but not enough time to immerse fully back in the hurt.
the golden cord in the cloud was there and then it wasn’t. it dissipated as our relationship with the sun changed, light moving in the sky.
the cello line soared and then dropped to a whisper, the piano steady behind it, chording a base harmony, structural and necessary.
the universe stood steady for me, for us, as we processed – once again – what these people had done – people who we trusted, to whom we felt connection, with whom we shared community. it reminded me – it reminded us – that – just as in the IG meme – we had slipped through their hands and that we should feel gratitude instead of loss. some things are just not meant to stay the same. including relationships.
and the mixture of emotions joined the whisper of cello and slipped into the shimmer of gold dust in the cloud. and the cloud moved through the sky and just as quickly as it had shone up, suddenly the gold dust was gone. looking for the next heart that needed it.
i recently made a chain of paper rings. it had about thirty strips of colored paper – many of the colors visible and invisible in this cloud – each cut with fancy paper scissors or pinking shears, looped, stapled and hung on the closet in our room.
it was a countdown and i needed the visual to keep it all in perspective, to remember to hold it all lightly, to know that there are days before The Day and days after The Day.
our whole lives are filled with paper rings, connected loops that go on and on and on. each season of our lives drops to the floor when we cut the loops loose and then – miraculously and on cue – the next season starts.
i had placed a lot of emphasis on The Day at the end of the paper chain. when it arrived, not only was it anticlimactic, it turned out to be utterly disappointing, completely unsatisfactory and a day that had been overemphasized in my mind and heart as we headed toward it, lopping off loop after loop.
i suppose that this is not uncommon. anticipatory angst, anticipatory fear, anticipatory grief, anticipatory glee at completing something – they are all supercharged and take up a lot of space in us. i read that the buddha would view it as dukkha– which is unnecessary suffering – that which pulls us away from the present moment. the wish for a specific outcome rails against the fear of that outcome not coming to fruition – it all is a tug-of-war and is suffering itself. at the end of the paper chain something is to happen – we imagine the best, we imagine the worst – all unwritten, all fictitious, unpromised though powerful – but what about every moment – every loop – in the meanwhile?
the rainbow in the cloud was just beautiful. it morphed and changed with the wind, but it stuck around for a while before it vanished. we watched from the adirondack chairs on the patio, content to be in its company.
maybe it was a reminder that nothing is permanent, that no paper chain has a guarantee, that each loop counts. and so does every color.
i’m not sure i ever noticed the shadow. for decades i’ve looked at sky and clouds and contrails and rows and floes of angel hair (oops – off-track, there)….but i don’t know that i ever noticed the shadow.
there are days that some new learning just utterly astounds you – even something really basic, something that has been there all along, something as simple as some word you’ve incorrectly spelled all-your-life. the possibilities are endless. we are fortunate that way.
we were out the other day and someone asked us if we were “retired“. we laughed, mostly because that isn’t an easy question for us. “retired” implies that one has completed the working portion of their life and has moved into a phase wherein one collects some sort of pension or retirement and one does, well, whatever one wants.
we answered that our son calls us “nebulously retired“. the guy who asked us laughed. and we added that we are artists and artists don’t really retire. we don’t report to a certain place each day at a certain time for a certain wage but we don’t stop working either. artistry is an ongoing thing, whether or not it earns you a pension.
artistry also calls you to keep learning, to keep asking questions, to be intrigued, to hone your skills, to work at it – no matter your age or stage.
and so, the contrail shadow made me curious and i looked it up – this seeming optical illusion of line on the bank of clouds that were, apparently, below it. it is a little mind-twisting. but oh-so-interesting and photo-worthy.
though photography has not been any official part of my artistry it is something i have always loved. ever since my sweet momma and poppo gave me a 35mm camera for my early-high-school-graduation, i have carried cameras around with me. with the advent of phone cameras that are better than most older digital cameras, i am even more zealous now. the contrail invited me to take its picture. and it’s too easy.
and, yes, it’s too easy to just keep going, keep creating, keep learning – even nebulously. we both keep it fluid – this relationship with our artistry. the line is vague, the distinction is indistinct, blurry.
we are sometimes the contrail and sometimes the shadow and sometimes the clouds upon which the shadow is cast. and we like it that way. distinctly nebulous.
it looked sickly hanging in the garden section of the home improvement store. there it was – all dry and twisted – a boston fern with no one to love it.
our sweet potato vine had given it up on the old vintage ladder that leans against the house on the deck. it was not handling life well there. we moved it to the top of barney and it came back to life, its lime green trailing around barney’s keyboard, its heart leaves offering company to all the birds and squirrels that frequent the top of barney’s upright-piano-ness.
we were sort of looking for something else for the ladder, though it was not with fervor – it’s only an old ladder on a deck leaning against the house – it is not necessarily a priority as summer wanes.
the sickly fern was in and amongst lots of other sickly ferns. this one, however, made it into our hands. “‘it’s $7.50,” i complained, “that’s a lot for a fern that looks like it’s not going to make it.” plus it felt like so many plants there needed people to care for them. i felt a little overwrought looking at all the dried-up herbs and annuals, perennials outgrowing their pots, the potted canna lilies and small ornamental trees fallen, laying on the concrete.
we pondered it – like we do most purchases – and decided to adopt the fern, bring it home, nurture it and hope for the best.
when we checked out, it rang up at $3.75 – half-price – making it a bit more palatable.
we placed it carefully in the backseat of big red and told it we were bringing it to a new home. we told it we would take care of it and not to worry – the first item of business was to get it some fresh water and sprinkle its crunchy-dry fronds.
it doesn’t really take much to take care of a fern. “ferny” as we dubbed it (because we are clever like that) perked up as soon as it started drinking in much-needed water.
devising a way to hang it from the ladder (three old shower curtain hooks did the trick!) we placed it in its new home. it immediately looked proud and we decided that next year we would go straight to the ferns for the ladder-on-the-deck.
now, as summer continues to wane, we are watching our tomatoes and mint start to lose their exuberance. the jalapeños are still trying to make new little baby peppers and the chives are pretty much going strong. our licorice plants all seem happy and so do the vines growing from the actual sweet potatoes we planted in dirt. but the other flowers are showing signs of fall coming, the ornamental grass plumes are changing color, the day lily flower shoots have browned and are ready for pulling. we are gearing up to enter a new season.
i wonder how ferny will do as time goes on – and september becomes october. i wonder if it will survive moving indoors as we are not necessarily intuitive green-thumbers.
no matter what, we will do the best we can. and if calling it by name (along with all the other named plants in our home) and cheering it on – best-guessing its care with the help of our horticultural friend google – will keep it nurtured and thriving, then we have set our course.
i am convinced of the direct relation between nurturing and flourishing. and that – nurturing – we can do.
we had a field trip, an outing, a get-out-of-the-house, a jaunt. “yippee-doo-da!” we thought as we headed out.
it was to a couple of our favorite garden centers. we decided that we were on the the quest for a plant to place on an old painted-white column that is in our dining room. the column has been waiting for Just the right thing – feeling all forlorn and empty like no column should feel. and, after trying all kinds of other things – things from around our home, from in the basement, in the attic, things from outside in the garage, things, things, things…we finally knew what should go on it. a living plant.
we have two heartleaf philodendrons in our house – one that our girl gave me as a gift (that one is named “charlie”) and the second that i gave d on the occasion of our seventh anniversary (that one is named “seven”). we went searching for another – so that it could grow and vine its way around this 3’ tall column, next to the stack of vintage suitcases, just off from the dining room table.
i simply cannot walk around a nursery and keep my camera in my bag. it is impossible. the potential photographs are limitless – color exploding everywhere you look.
in particular this day were the coneflowers. in a big expanse of plant stands, they were in their glory, putting passive color charts – rightly – in their place. i was trying hard not to whip out my camera, but eventually i gave in.
i only took a few pictures, but these – “intense orange”, “hot coral”, “mineola-orange”, “orange-red” – were so vibrant i could not ignore them. ignoring them – missing their call – would be missing a breath. they were like the most extraordinary sunset – a sky full of coneflowers.
after wandering and touching and drinking it all in, we brought home a deep-forest-green heartleaf philodendron, named it “just right” and placed it on the column, which grinned.
we aren’t going far these days – keeping our old dogga company, making sure he is ok.
but it doesn’t take going too far to remind you of the glorious all around you.
standing in the outbuilding on the farm, we both felt a little bit gleeful. the sweet peppers in front of us were so, well, freaking happy. their glossy lime green, tangerine orange and lipstick red funky shapes just about did us in.
and that wasn’t the whole of it. there were mini white cucumbers and multicolored corking jalapeños, gorgeous tomatoes and giant squash, the freshest parsley and every kind of onion. it was just too much. we were ecstatic.
between the lettuce-elimination campaign and all the food recalls – in a country that seemingly doesn’t want us to actually eat – we have found a new way that isn’t new at all: the farmstands.**
in less than two weeks we have been to farmstands four times. we have loaded up with eggplant, zucchini and tomatoes from a tiny stand out a-ways and we already have a list to go back. we are just weary of the worry about produce coming in to grocery stores from places where some process or another has caused alarm about its food safety.
and we have a new source for lettuce too, so take that! you lettuce-spoilers. our town has a hydroponic grower who offers various lettuces (their butter lettuce is divinely fresh!) and microgreens we are anxious to try.
we spent labor day weekend food-prepping: quinoa tabouli, homemade tomato sauce, basil cubes (from the basil in our garden). we made spaghetii squash for the sauce, had eggplant and zucchini on last week’s menu, fabulously fresh tomato and cucumber sandwiches for lunch. it’s time to push back and eating from as much local as we can get is how we can do it.
they recognized us when we came back the second and third times and they suggested we consider a community supported agriculture food share (CSA) for next year. we’ll see. it’s a possibility and they could clearly see that in our exuberance – as we continue to ride gleefully on our farmstand wave of happy.
we moved the sweet potato vine from the ladder on the deck. between the heat and the rain, it was struggling. we weren’t sure it was going to make it, which seems odd for a sweet potato vine, usually pretty invincible.
no matter, we thought, it needed to be moved so that it might have a chance. we transplanted it into a bigger pot and placed it on top of barney – a spot with maybe a bit more sun.
and then we watched it.
with few green leaves still on the vine, we feared it would not last.
but that little sweet potato surprised us. with little-engine-that-could chutzpah, it soaked up the sun, its perch on barney, visits from squirrels and cardinals, house sparrows and finches. and it started to recuperate.
it greened up – into that really rich chartreuse – life-affirming lime-green fabulousness. more leaves sprouted their way from the vine that started to extend across the keyboard. it started to look thicker, more vibrant, even verdant.
and – in the way that we see things – we drank in the simple-but-outstanding gorgeous juxtaposition of green and aging piano wood. stunning.
it is certain. color can help.
with all the ugly in this world right now, we could stare at that for a time and breathe.
when i was sixteen and seventeen and eighteen i spent a lot of time hanging out with crunch. he and i worked together at the dive center and were close pals. his fiancée lived a bit of a distance away so she left me to “keep an eye on him”. crunch didn’t need any eye kept on him – he was a straight-up good person. nevertheless, he became a part of the family and we had grand adventures together, most of them out on the water somewhere.
in the way that people stay with you through the decades of your life, there are certain things – expressions – behaviors – you take from them. there are several i cannot even begin to describe that i learned from crunch. one, though, came from spending a lot of time with him and our constant companions: our cameras.
because of crunch i am obsessive-compulsive about my horizon line. i can hear him in my head – keep your horizon straight, straight, straight. it has haunted me for the last almost fifty years. that’s a long time to hear someone in your head. but it never fails – every single time i take a photograph – whether it’s on water or high in the mountains, canyonlands or a wildflower meadow adjacent to a hiking trail – i can hear crunch’s voice: keep it straight.
there are worse things. things that have stood the test of time that i hear other people saying, things that are deflating or hurtful. so keep-the-horizon-straight is harmless and, actually, good advice…even over and over and over.
we are fortunate to be able to walk along lake michigan any time of day or night. a few steps and we are on the path that takes us past the rocky shoreline to the beach and the marina. every day we try to walk at least a 3.5 mile loop – and every day one of us comments about how lucky we are.
i have only been out on lake michigan’s waters once. on a sailboat a long time ago. i don’t remember much about it – it was an extraordinarily busy time of life and i think my sail got lost in the shuffle of other memories to remember. i’m fairly certain it was lovely – to set sail and be adrift in this lake-that-looks-like-an-ocean, this lake with so many personalities and moods, this big lake whose very energy we can feel at our house.
i always thought i would grow up to live on the shores of long island sound…somewhere along the rocky cliffs that fall to the beach, sunrises and sunsets over the horizon of water a part of my every day.
it didn’t turn out that way. i left long island prematurely, fleeing trauma and fear.
in recent days i have been back there – restoring my relationship with what was my beloved home, the water that grounded me for all those earlier years.
i still don’t think i will end up living on the shores of long island sound now. but here i am, mere steps away from a beautiful great lake – with access to it for day’s beginning or day’s end.
and as i stand on the rocks alongside the water’s edge, the sailboat – adrift – is lit by the west-sinking sun. i snap photos of it as it glows and i hear crunch – ever-present – “keep the horizon straight!”
the gardens on the side of the backyard where barney is are not fancy, but they are lush. they are full of daylilies and ornamental grasses, three peonies and a volunteer hosta or two. it is the side of the yard where squirrels scamper and hide with stolen cherry tomatoes, finches and house sparrows and cardinals gleefully dine on birdseed, barney ages into mellow beauty with wild geranium at its feet. back in the corner there is an old firepit with burgeoning red salvia, surrounded by dwarf sedge grasses, a few dark green-leafed hosta, and one struggling pampas grass by the back fence. when it all gets away from us, there are a few weeds scattered into this garden, a little more wild than the rest but well-loved nonetheless. with a very few exceptions, all of these plants in this side garden have been generous gifts from others – from their own gardens or purchased at nurseries for us – and we value and cherish each and every one.
we also value and cherish peace, so the metal peace sign we purchased at a garden shop in the little town a smidge north from where dogga was born is an ideal addition to this wild and verdant garden.
one of our neighbors needed to clear off some vine from the garage that runs along the second half – the further half – of this garden. naturally, granting permission for access to our yard, he came equipped to do the job – with a ladder and a bucket and snippers and bio-bags. as they are avid gardeners i did not feel like i needed to be out there, managing his work. we were keeping dogga inside during his task on this sunny day and so i did glance out the window often to monitor his progress.
watching him step – with both feet and sans any sensitive awareness – over the little garden edge-fencing into our garden and directly onto our daylilies – crushing them – was shocking. he moved around in our garden, his foot placement of no apparent concern to him.
i did not go outside to admonish him. i just couldn’t believe what he was doing. i guess i didn’t want to create conflict, but i was most certainly feeling the conflict.
when he was done, the brick of their garage was clear of vine, but our little garden next to barney was trampled. the daylilies lay on the ground, their fronds broken. there was no mention of any harm done to them, no apology, no contrition whatsoever.
i couldn’t help but wonder why it was that our garden was not good enough to protect in his effort to take care of his own property.
i couldn’t help but wonder what he would have done had i literally traipsed all over one of his gardens.
i couldn’t help but wonder – after – why i did not go outside and demand that he stop immediately and to be please be careful.
at what price is keeping the peace?
fancy or not, our garden counted. whatever was this disregard? i literally cried looking at our flattened lilies, what was lush and standing now mushed on the ground.
and, mostly, i was utterly upset with myself. in an effort to not stir the pot, i allowed this man to enter my yard – and to be ruinous – and i did not stop him or hold him accountable.
and that is not ok.
we mustn’t just stand back and allow any single person – or, for that matter, any administration – to crush that which is ours. we mustn’t permit others to run over us, to expect us to grant them undeserved or undue authority or accommodate any higher priority in which they cast themselves (or is it “caste” themselves?), to trample any part of the precious home we have created.
that is not peace.
peace: a state of harmony marked by the absence of hostility, violence or mental anxiety.
relational peace: treating other people with respect and kindness
global peace: respecting the earth and all living things
every bit of what happened here translates – from the smallest act of irreverent ruin to the most heinous – lack of respect is lack of respect. where is the line?
and now, we will be tending what-were-our-intrepid-daylilies, our boundaries, and the loss of a bit of our peace, hoping for them all to come back.
