reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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the flower in the middle. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we usually leave our house – and arrive at our house – through the back door. it all started when, years ago, i was having trouble with the front door – the key wouldn’t work in the lock and – at the time, and for some time – it was too pricey to have a locksmith either fix it or install a whole new handle assembly on an old door with a really unique and beautiful vintage brass handle. so i used the back door instead. exclusively.

now, clearly i went to the front door to answer it, to check the mail, to exit directly into the front yard. it was just more secure to leave through the back and it was impossible to enter through the front.

phew. enough about that.

anyway, the other day – mid-afternoon – i went to the front door to check the mailbox. dogga always comes with me to “check the mail with momma”. glancing out, i could see this bright yellow flower – just one – happily growing next to one of the big ornamental grasses between our front sidewalk and the old brick wall.

all perky-like, it totally captured my attention – this little stranger in the midst of all the green fronds around it.

it didn’t look unhappy in its lostness. on the contrary, it looked completely at ease.

when i was little i had this inordinate, oversized fear of getting lost. i was completely not at ease with it. and my big brother fed this fear (just like my big sister fed fears of mine – for they were both a decade older than me and i was an easy target.)

i would be traveling with my dad and my big bro – in our pink camper van they converted from a long island lighting company (lilco) fleet-van. this van had a propensity for breaking down and it always seemed to be while we were upstate somewhere, forcing us to get off the highway onto these side roads to nowhere – woods and fields everywhere and no gas station to be found. my heightened angst about being lost would kick in – egged on by my beloved brother. i was little enough to be convinced we were never going to get home from the place-in-the-forest we had ended up, always stuck on the side of the road in a pink camper van, forever and ever more.

because my dad and my brother were both male – they were not inclined to ask for help or directions or a tow. instead, they did things like cut bits of barbed wire from random fences to resecure whatever it was in the engine that was falling apart. they’d drive and drive for miles – using the sun for guidance – to try and find their way back to an entrance to the highway. you know, various brilliant avoidances of utilizing the rest of humanity to help them.

to their credit, we always did get home safe and sound. and – to their credit – they truly were brilliant themselves – resourceful rube goldbergs – creativity and mechanical savvy combining to make every journey a success, no matter what.

i do think, though, that there are many people who – like this beautiful yellow flower – find themselves out of place, lost. out of place and lost can make one feel increasingly frantic and afraid:

“i think a lot of people are like this – lost, confused, and looking for directions but too scared or embarrassed or ashamed to ask for help.” (valerie bertinelli)

in all the adult travel i have done – particularly the solo travel – i have, like you, not really wanted to get lost on the way. but something about always arriving – when i was a child who was fearful – taught me to just take a breath. i have found that i talk aloud to myself as i drive through confusing territory – reminding myself i can always turn around and retrace my steps, i can always go back over the bridge the way i came, i can always pull over and regroup. and these days – with GPS at our side guiding our every veer and turn – this is even less imperative.

that doesn’t cover existential lostness, though. it doesn’t help with the out-of-place we feel in situations or circumstances – crossroads – of life that have nothing to do with traveling or maps.

” so many travelers say that sometimes you have to get lost to find what you’re looking for…”

maybe it’s those early days in our pink van that helped. the laughter and the tears, the ribbing and the comforting, the getting lost and the finding. it all somehow balances out.

in just a few days our little yellow flower was no longer there. it was almost like it had moved on.

but i do believe it was supposed to be right there – right out the now-keylock-accessible front door – waiting for us to see its happy face.

a little drop-in flower that reminded us of the raw of lostness and foundness and the time in the middle.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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even the tiniest flower. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

this tiniest flower of spanish needles reminds me of tenacity…as every plant produces about 1200 seeds to ensure its continued propagation – its desire to be in this world.

to be in this world…to be a part of this universe…to be valued.

we walk – when we walk in the ‘hood – past this plant every day. and every day i am enchanted by these tiny blossoms, in each phase of their living, each season they exist.

and i wonder how so many people – so cavalier – so uncaring – right-here-right-now – in this country – find it so hard to care about the very existence of other people when it is really so very easy to be grateful for the even the tiniest flower.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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tiny cup. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

this flower looks like Love to me.

it is our new elsa sass peony, grown from a root that was gifted to me last fall.

we planted it carefully, following every instruction, with the eyes of the root system facing up, in exactly the right depth of soil. it was all new to us and we were eager to learn how to properly care for this amazing flower. i placed painted rocks at the site of this root and an amalia olson we also planted. and then we waited. and through fall and into cold winter and then, finally, spring, we waited.

and then, in later april, the maroon sprouts appeared. there were a plethora over by where our one other peony is – the one with hot pink blooms, a transplant from a friend’s garden that zealously grows each spring. and there were a couple tiny sprouts by our painted rocks, indicators of at least the possibility of a little success. i took photographs and was pretty excited.

these are small plants this year, only a few stems. yet they each had a couple buds – tightly wound – promises of blooms. and so we kept a watchful eye and carefully placed fencing to prop them up – these fragile stems against the spring storms.

the pink peonies exploded into being. their scent wafted through our backyard and into the open windows of our house. it is an amazing display of color, a celebration of flower!, a double peony orchestral reminder of beauty.

and then, ever so slowly, the elsa sass opened to the sun. the white bloom – like a cup of petals – in slow motion, responding to a few warmer, sunnier midwest days.

i would have been absolutely content if this bloom had simply stayed exactly like this. i was taken by its sheer beauty, its purity, overwhelmed by its sweet fragrance.

maybe it’s the state of the world, the tenuousness of our land. maybe it’s an inventory of time – both that which has gone by and that which is ahead of us. maybe it’s simply presence – the moments gazing at something so beautiful you can hardly believe its perfection. in any case – for whatever the reason – i was obsessed with this stunning flower.

this one blossomed peony – this one bud that slowly unwound its way into the world – was a light for me. it filled me up. it reminded me to breathe. and – in the most-amazing way – this tiny cup of petals lay bare the lesson to hold gently all within me.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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seeds. [two artists tuesday]

and the beautiful flower – with tiny white petals – its seeds were ripening. slowly, it began to wrap its inflorescence in, protecting. and the tiny bird’s-nest-shape remained, wound around, parenting, holding dear until the dried seeds, ready, release and go off into the world.

nature repeats itself. its stories – from one species to the next, one genus to the next – seem inordinately similar.

we – now adults – have left our own green-bird’s-nest years ago. it was a haven of sorts, but only for a time, as we grew. and then, suddenly, we are out and about in the world, riding the jet stream, surfing the tide, subjected to scorching sun and bitter cold. we trust the world to carry us safely. we are innocent seeds.

we learn – in different stages of our growth – that though we are held in unconditional love by some, there are others who will not tend us gently. we begin to discern the difference. we choose those who support us, whose inflorescent arms wrap us lightly, tenderly. we are buoyed, encouraged, picked up, bolstered by these arms. the others – the ones who aim to dilute, push down, disempower – they are loud voices – righteous and suffocating and dispiriting.

but – amidst either – we are still seeds as we continue on, other seeds also on this way.

and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – once held gently and released – always with the knowledge that there are nurturing tiny and big blossoms out there, sharing the universe with us.

and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – to, similarly, hold gently and release – with empathy our north star as we float and soar, celebrating every single other seed.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

(composers pat alger and ralph murphy)

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in KC’s family. [two artists tuesday]

just past the eyelash phase, in a tightly woven and protected calyx of green sepals (leaves), the gardenia bonsai flower waits. a little research reveals that it will take about two months of growing to reach the point of a cracked bud, hopefully flowering after. KC is reportedly “one of the most loved and challenging plants in the bonsai world” and i hope that i am up to the task. these beautiful and somewhat-difficult-to-grow plants offer “a unique opportunity for anyone who wishes to take the time to attend to their needs.” they are particular about sunlight, particular about direction of window exposure, particular about temperature, particular about humidity, particular about watering, particular about feeding with fertilizer, particular about shape and pruning, particular about training, particular about insects and mold, particular about repotting, particular about touch. they do well without any negative stressful environmental factors. it occurs to me that perhaps i am in the bonsai gardenia family.

KC sits together with some other lower-maintenance plants (read: succulents you can’t really mess up) and is clearly different than them. its leaves are rich in color, two whorls protecting promising buds, and its presence demands to be noticed. i talk to it every day, encouraging it, paying attention, hoping i am tending to it properly. i truly cherish this little bonsai; my beloved daughter and her boyfriend sent it to me for my birthday and it was a joyous and glittering moment to receive such a beautiful gift. i want to do my best helping this little gardenia along. and, in light of the last year, the last couple years, i can understand and relate to its eccentricities. mmm, can’t we all?

in the evening KC is bathed in the sparkle of the sunroom’s happy lights. proudly in the spot it has claimed on the table, it sits, basking. it is one of the sparkles of the year. there have been many, despite the difficulties, within the difficulties, despite the challenges, within the challenges, despite these times, within these times. if it were possible, i would set each around us in the sunroom, also bathed in happy lights, like laundry clothespinned to a clothesline, reminding us of the best times, the memorable times, the happiest snapshots, the most poignant moments, the yin-yang of relationships, reassuring love in trying-to-stay-centered, the times we balanced stress and the times we succumbed to it, successful and unsuccessful zen, and exhausted times of rest.

i would place the clothesline in the middle of the room so that you could not help but see each item, each old wooden clothespin, memory-laundry crowded onto a timeline, reminding us that the minute does not stay. that whether the minute is feverish or beauty-laden, it moves on.

we are all particular; we are all particularly needy. our lists and our baggage surpass that of the little bonsai gardenia. we are all up to the task. we do our best in each moment, whether it is dark or sparkling. and we remember we can try again. we can help each other; we are “most loved and challenging”. KC already knows that.

i am excited to see KC bloom. i wait patiently for this amazing flower to arrive. in the meantime, i light the white gardenia candle, talk to my plant and drink in the glow of the happy lights, trying. each day. living just past the eyelash phase.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY