i procrastinate putting away the wrought iron table and chairs. i just want to leave a couple pillows out, a place to sit, the possibility of a meal – one more time – at the table on the deck.
all the other things-of-summer are put away. we’ve cleared the potting stand. we’ve transplanted the lavender. we’ve put the tiki torches and the fire column in the garage. the old door and the black and white prayer flags are taken down and the rugs are rolled up. it’s not easy – this nod to impending winter. and so, we keep out the wrought iron table and chairs and just a couple pillows.
and this week – it has been possible – because this week has been a gift of sun and warmth. and this week we have been able to stretch it out a bit longer, pulling on the taffy of early-autumn just a little bit more.
it’s like a gear-up moment. a chance to sit – for no other purpose but sitting – in the sun. a chance to ponder the coming holiday season. a chance to daydream a bit. a chance to let go – even momentarily – of worry.
and when bellaruth – in my guided imagery meditation – asks me to imagine a place, to see it, to feel it all around me – i would guess that one of those places might be sitting at this outside table, pillow behind me, feet on another chair, eyes closed in the sun. or maybe, sitting on the edge of the deck in the taffy-pull of glorious fall days.
viriginia creeper…after the leaves have fallen. blue berries. it’s also called woodbine. and the instant that david told me that, i was back in northport.
for on the corner of woodbine avenue and main street sits skippers pub. it’s just on the other side of main from the park and the gazebo and the harbor boatslips and that place – at the end of the dock – where i have sat for hours and listened to the clanking of metal-rigged sails in the moonlight. it’s visceral.
some of the berries are gone now – only a few days since i took this picture. but as the temperatures drop, the critters have been busy, i suppose. and i hope that the woodbine berries help them prepare and stoke up.
in daydreams, i go back to skippers. sit at the bar and talk with crunch about fishing or diving or life, eat lobster bisque and baked clams, maybe sip a beer (back in the day). i go back when i was 18 or just barely 19; those earlier times were different than later.
a bunch of years back, david and i were on the island and we spent time walking around northport, spent time on the docks, spent time at skippers. we sat at the bar and ate baked clams and buffalo calamari. he sipped a guiness and i had a glass of wine. it was a little bit of heaven. i pointed out the window and, as he looked out, i knew he was looking out the same lettered window i had gazed out of decades ago. the view was a little changed – both from inside and out – of me.
but i could feel the energy of those times past and i could feel the bits of goodness that still floated about from happy moments spent there. skippers will always be a place of refuge in my mind – not because it was a pub – but because it was a place of joy, a place of innocence, of fun and friendship and tales of fishing and diving.
there will always be places we internally feel good about and, of course, the complete opposite – places that are inherently negative, that drudge up things toxic or painful. each of us can likely rattle off a few examples of each category.
skippers – on the corner of woodbine and main – will remain one of the good ones.
and now, each time i pass our dear westneighbors’ fence along our driveway and see the woodbine curling and stretching and growing on the wooden posts, i will likely smile and think of baked clams and lobster bisque and the long island when i was 18.
it doesn’t take much to get my attention. the drops of water. the juxtaposition of muted color. the use of the add-9 in a 1-3-5 chord. the tension that is created between that ninth and the tonic of the triad, begging for release, suspended to evoke emotion.
if we all spent time in the beautiful details of things, perhaps there would be little time for disagreement, little time for division, little time to perpetuate negativity. i suppose this all sounds a bit idealistic, maybe even pollyanna-ish.
when i was in high school, one of my best friends – marc – used to poke fun at me. he’d point out that i was all about sunrises, rainbows, bubbles. we’d argue the merits of musicians – me defending john denver, him defending bob dylan. i was an innocent back then, living in a family that was almost all a “generation” older, comparatively speaking. while other families were watching the wonderful world of disney and episodes of dark shadows, mine was watching doris day, rock hudson, debbie reynolds movies and episodes of gidget and hogan’s heroes and petticoat junction. my parents weren’t in front of the tv when saturdaynight live started in 1975 and the radio in the kitchen played wgsm from huntington, which didn’t include led zeppelin or aerosmith in their line-up. the record player in the living room spun robert goulet and jim nabors, herb alpert and the tijuana brass. my sweet momma did not dance to janis ian or carole king or joni mitchell or aretha franklin. my dad whistled all the time, but never a john lennon song or billy joel or david bowie. i wasn’t so much pop-culture-up-to-date-informed.
innocence has a way of exiting the building and sometimes this is by more profound circumstances than others. i’m in that second category.
but i still look back – to before – and think about the sunrises, rainbows and bubbles of that period of my life. sometimes somewhat wistfully.
and as i pass the mauve and olive leaves on the trail, noticing the tiny droplets of dew or the morning rain – still visible, i realize that somewhere in there, the unwavering john denver fan, the jonathan livingston seagull fan, the doris-day-rock-hudson-debbie-reynolds fan still exists. i can see her waving from other there. she stops me on the trail and reminds me. of goodness and beauty. and of sunrises, rainbows and bubbles.
tuesday was a beautiful day. inordinately warm for late october, the sun drenched everything in autumn light – it all seemed to glow. it was a good day, particularly after monday. some days are just hard.
we took a long hike.
we sorted.
we processed.
with our feet on the ground – solidly – shuffling through fallen leaves – every sense alive, aware – we talked about all that was happening. the warm air around us helped.
our conversation never lulled; there is much to talk about. the world – the fighting. our country – the division. our community. climate change and its toll. friends who have experienced the sudden and unexpected loss of others. trauma that doesn’t release its grip. challenges of our very own. so much.
with each step into the sun, we both – once again – marveled at the moment in time where we would link arms, hold hands and walk together. sifting through all the colors, through all the layers, through all the everything, there is this.
and we are a little less tired.
“hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.” (anne lamott)
fall is coming on. there is no denying it. everything is starting to wane.
the sky is starting to gray. the corn will be soon plowed under and, one of these days, the cabbage fields will have to turn over, the yield from their crop slowed to a stop. the colors are changing.
george winston recorded an album called autumn. you listen inside his wistfulness as he toys with the emotions of the changing. the album was released in 1980 and, for me, that was a distinct time of heading into fallow.
some fallows last longer than the seasons and the tilted axis of the earth seems to evade warming sunlight. the seeds gather strength in the ground – centered in us, even without us nourishing them. and eventually, ever-so-slowly sometimes, the earth tilts back toward the sun and the orbital horizon is rebirth, spring.
it seems to happen fast – the waning. the ebb and flow of the cold. there is nothing as constant as change and, so, we need remember that in times of fallow. the tide – like the corn and the cabbage – will come and go, come and go. an ancient story.
we join hands with others on our path – they are quite possibly on the same ebb and quite possibly will be in the flow with us as well. they stand with us, they encourage us, they surprise us. the shapes of others appear – like revelations – from out of the mist of our fixed frame of reference. everything looks different.
standing on this side of the corn, gazing into the grayness of sky, the dance of color as it fades, i am finding – with much gratitude – that there are others standing right there with me, gazing as well. the wistful tugs at us; gravitational effect far from the sun but with promise of the pull. we stand still, roots under our feet, steadfastly hand-holding, looking at the horizon as it shifts.
and time passes and the seasons flow and flow and, eventually, the axis finally – at long last – tilts and the fallow ends and the seeds that were planted so long ago break through the frozen ground and we know that we have – together – affected even the tiniest change.
and winter comes as we stoke up, readying ourselves for the riches of spring.
mama dear always wore lipstick. it really didn’t matter what the occasion or if there even was an occasion. she had her lipstick on and carried it in her purse to refresh. she came to mind the moment i saw this hibiscus. this was the color.
my grandmother had red hair – for as long as i can remember. she also had a red-hair-personality. she was sassy and stubborn, full of sisu; she did red hair proud. she was one of my best friends and we sat together and ate rye toast sipping tea talking about life in her last years. i was in my beginning years when she was in her ending years. i was just experimenting with make-up and she wore lipstick. well.
i still don’t wear lipstick. sometimes a little lip balm, but never lipstick. despite my big sister’s best efforts – for decades – to find the right shade, the best hue, the most moisturizing, the longest-lasting, it’s never felt quite right on me.
even now, as i see my lips fade a bit from my face – in the way that aging does that – i can’t wear hibiscus – or even soft peach-fuzz-rose – on my lips. though mama dear, my own sweet momma, my sister all looked and look stunningly beautiful with the added color to their perfect faces, something has always precluded me.
in the photo shoot for my second album cover, the make-up artist chose a lip pencil, carefully outlining and then filling in with – yes – deep red color. after the album was released, i had my dear graphic designer tone it down, re-releasing the jacket to resemble me a little more. for to release a jacket that didn’t hold true to what i looked like felt contrary to the release of music i had written from deep in my heart. i believe mama dear would understand.
so i guess i will stick with lip balm and the hibiscus will stay on the stem and i will have sweet memories and giant appreciation for its color in the world.
we were hose-holdouts. we had those hard rubber (and some hard plastic) hoses that are just difficult to deal with – the kind that bend back on themselves and kink and stop the waterflow (which, of course, is their entire role in life). one of them was attached to one of those hose rollup reel thingies that has a handle and you roll the hose onto it, trying to guide it into place (because it all somehow reels into the same spot) while simultaneously getting wet and muddy from the hose which is supposed to just easily glide into place on the rollup thingie.
we admired other people’s gardenhoses. they had nifty wrinkled-up expandable miracle hoses. they had lightweight-rubber-hoses-that-never-kinked. they had expandable-retractable hoses of many colors. we were in hose-envy with no hose-budget.
until one day.
the amazon guy left a couple boxes out in front of our door. now, this is a very exciting day. we order little and so we are ridiculously excited to see a box on our doorstep. truly, ridiculously.
two boxes. one was the spiffiest 50′ expandable hose – lightweight, all curled up like a sleeping garden snake, ready to take on our backyard. the other box had a bright neon green watering wand, which has to be one of the best inventions of all time. gifts from one of my beautiful nieces, we did a we’re-catching-up-in-the-world happy dance and relieved the heavy old hose from its duty on our deck.
it makes a difference, i must say. one wants to spend time watering with a hose that isn’t like lugging the entire water table along behind you sans sherpa-help. the wand is truly amazing (and i know we must be many years behind with this one, having been the proud owners of handheld nozzles for a bazillion years – the kinds that invariably don’t seal properly onto the hose screwtop receiver and spray sideways all over you as you attempt to use it.)
now, i stand calmly and peacefully – even zen-like – with my watering wand and obedient expandable-retractable-lightweight-miracle-hose and move from spot to spot in the backyard. i gently and tenderly – without jerking the hose along – sprinkle my herbs and rain down on our ornamental grasses and ferns.
everything has benefited from this combo. but mostly me.
the simplest upgrade-change – something newfangled! – has made a difference in a chore. it has made it a gift of slowing-down-time, of appreciating the growth of our gardens around us, a kind of meditation.
mostly, we have entered the twenty-first century of hoses. and we are feeling like the cat’s meow.
and from my tiny home under the clover, i can look up and see that maybe the sky is clearing and the rains have stopped. the whole town has put up black umbrellas; some are bent from the wind and most are taller than they are wide, so it’s still easy to get caught in the downpours. and i can see – over there – the brown fulton birdcage umbrellas all set up, rounded bubbles – but everything that has been drenched is now drying a bit and it’s all verdant green and lush. it’s time to carry on.
i’m leaving my little home under the clover to go back out into the world. to see its giantness and feel the arriving sun and appreciate the balance of sunsoaked and rainsoaked, to try and understand the relationship between lack and abundance, to navigate the seesaw of positive and negative.
i see that it is quite possibly all about perspective. for the birds flying over our umbrella-world don’t see us here and, from our vantage point under the umbrella canopy, we don’t see them there. it’s only in the open field that we see each other, in the open field we can discern and hear each other, in the open field we can find truth.
my perspective has gotten lost from time to time, focused merely on my own parched landscape and drenching rainstorms. stepping out, looking around, taking stock – i see past the tiny market-umbrella-town in which i’ve taken shelter.
and i am no longer silent. there is much to be said, much to be learned.
and in the sun i’ll revel. and in the rain i won’t carry an umbrella.
my tree. i found a photograph of my tree. the one i sat in for the years i was growing up on long island. i wrote poetry and tinkered with lyrics and sorted out the pinings of teenagehood. in that tree.
things are never as big as what you remember. the maple tree wasn’t huge – but it provided solace and a quiet, private place for me. i’d climb up and sit on one of the limbs, my back against the sturdy trunk, sun filtered through the leaves, my bedroom window within view. it wasn’t in a thick forest. and it wasn’t a giant old tree. it was a younger maple, just old enough to wisely offer me space, fill the place in me that needed it.
we walked into the silo. it was silent and tall. like a tiny round cathedral, it hit us both as a place you could sit, meditate, think, pray. a place to go to when you need to get centered again, when all else is spinning, when blustering winds or words are pummeling you, when you feel you cannot stop.
as we stepped in, damp cool gentle air wrapped around us. everything slowed down – hushed slow motion in a cave. had we had a chance to sit, we would have folded our legs beneath us, closed our eyes. leaned back against the trunk … oh, wait, it was cement…
quiet spaces are like that. inordinately remarkable, uncannily ordinary. but they share something. serenity.
guided imagery meditation ushers you to a quiet place. in belleruth naparstek’s meditations she invites that space to be anywhere – the forest, the shore, the desert, the canyon. places that have brought you peace. places you hold in your mind’s eye. places that are sacred to you.
even without guided imagery we find our own corners and crannies. they are the porches of our hearts – a spot to rest and rock.
i suppose the gift of these places is the unexpectedness. the silo was unexpected. the log on the side of the mountain stream, the jetty jutting into the sound, the edge of the canyon. i guess the first time so was my tree.
it’s all in recognizing it when you feel it. and you’re forever changed as you carry that place with you.
the volunteer morning glory just showed up. all of a sudden. in-between the cornstalks growing under our birdfeeder, when the sun was low in the sky, its quiet blue-purple peeked out. i – literally – ran to it. and there, tucked in, were two beautiful morning glory blooms. but – absent – were the infamous heart-shaped leaves. i googled it. an unwelcome volunteer, this ivy leaf morning glory can be toxic to our dogga – who loves to graze on various vegetation – and, sadly, must be pulled out.
i was going to try to avoid the obvious parallel here – volunteers who show up, but not with the best of intentions. we’ve all met them. people with power and control fantasies who turn up in organizations where they immediately volunteer for positions of leadership. because organizations are eager for the energy of new volunteers – even when they are unknown – many will thoughtlessly place someone into these positions without restraint. that’s when all hell breaks loose. (welp, i guess i didn’t avoid it.) the ivy leaf morning glory can be hallucinogenic and can cause tremors and other physical ailments in a pet. yes…same, same. an organization can tremor itself into oblivion with the perceived goodness (read: agenda) of the volunteer, new or otherwise. it’s best not to allow your sweet dog or your cherished organization to ingest mind-altering substances.
but on the flip side? had this volunteer purple-blue flower been safe, it would be heartily welcomed in our garden. we welcomed the small cornfields that dot our yard. we welcome the volunteer ornamental grasses that show up where we didn’t plant them. we welcome the sneaky groundcover with yellow flowers and the wild geranium. but – since the ivy leaf morning glory is over there by the corn where dogdog schnuffles around – and it’s noxious – we will be cautious. we aren’t watching him every moment while he’s outside in his backyard and we want him to be safe.
and so today we’ll thank the beautiful flowers of this variety of morning glory as we pull it out and we’ll protect our sweet tripper. no volunteer flower is worth him suffering in any way. our discernment is imperative.
reverse threading 