a couple decades ago a dear friend tied some stems of lavender together with string and gave them to me. it was a wish for peace, for calm, for comfort. one of the stringed-together stems still hangs in my studio.
sometime after that another dear friend shipped me lavender from her own yard – so that i might plant it in mine. for a time i had a lavender garden – returning each year until a neighbor’s invasive ground cover usurped my more fragile lavender.
the summer we lived on washington island we were privy to an amazing lavender farm – walkways in between beds upon beds of lavender in a field of tranquility.
a couple years ago i carefully dried some stems of lavender – hanging them in the basement – and then extracted the seeds, putting them in tiny organza bags to send to family members and close friends with wishes of healing and serenity.
in these last years we have planted big clay pots of lavender, anxiously waiting for the soft purple flowers and the scent off the breeze to lift us.
each year i am amazed by the clusters of diminutive flowers that make up the whole. each year i photograph the green stems and the tiny buds waiting to spring into bloom. each year i run my hand along the stalk and gently along the blossoming lavender, always taken by the fragrance.
it is no different this year. i sat on the deck next to the pot of lavender. my mind wandered back through the years – the lavender years – the gift of a posy, the plants flown to me across the country, the lavender in the fields on island, the lavender my girl picked out at the nursery. english lavender, french lavender, sweet romance lavender, bundles of lavender drying downstairs, beautiful sachets ready to be gifted.
we are not high-brow gardeners. our gardens are simple and have many heritage plants and things that are not complicated to grow. we know little but each year try to learn a wee bit more than we knew before.
maybe one day we will add a raised bed or two to our patio – where we might add more herbs, more vegetables, more flowers.
the thing i know we will always have – whether there is a simply a potting stand and perimeter gardens like there are now or something more – is a big pot of lavender.
we started a list. things we haven’t done before, things we’d like to do, things we’d like to repeat sometime, places we’d like to visit locally, things to explore. since we aren’t traveling this summer – on a vacation anywhere – we want to try some other things.
we added a few different herbs to our potting stand. we added dianthus and sweet potato vine to the planters on our deck. we added books to our list. we added recipes to our stockpile.
we are appreciating being home.
on friday night – just a few nights ago – we lounged in the old gravity chairs on our deck. it was cooler, the slightest of breezes off lake michigan. the air was soft. dogga was laying on the deck just feet from us. we watched the birds and the pond fountain. sipped a glass of wine. marveled at our quaking aspen. it was quiet.
we had had a hard time deciding what to do on that friday-night-date-night, as we call it. we had been thinking of driving up to milwaukee or down to a harbor in illinois where there is live music. but, for some reason, we just didn’t do either. dogga looked at us – with a big-eyed, sorrowful look – as he anticipated our departure. and we just agreed, “let’s stay home.”
dusk arrived and we finished dinner outside. not anxious to end the peaceful evening in our backyard, we stayed put.
we could spend all our time – all our words – on what is happening in and to our country and the world – and that would be a worthy thing.
but sometimes, even in the middle of all the madness that we simply cannot forget or put out of our minds, it is good to step aside, to go nowhere and do nothing, to zero in on the very simplest of things.
last year a black-capped chickadee returned over and over to this old barnwood birdhouse on our tree. each time it balanced on the the hole and pecked at the edges all around the entrance to the house. we wondered if – perhaps – it was not quite big enough for this bird and its intentions to build a nest. it worked at it – diligently – finessing the birdhouse as it could, enlarging the entrance and pecking off the sharp edges. but it did not end up nesting there.
this year two black-capped chickadees return over and over to this birdhouse on our tree. this year they carry in supplies – long strands of ornamental grasses, bits of branches and leaves. we believe that – this year – there is a nest inside this birdhouse. we hope we are right, for the idea of baby birds just off the patio – in this sweet birdhouse – makes us a little bit giddy. together these chickadees have made a home, taking turns with the chores of preparation and standing vigil, keeping it all safe from harm. we stay hopeful that there will be babies and that this sweet bird-family will endure all the hardships of nature and the passing of time.
yesterday was the 43rd anniversary of my (first) wedding.
i think back to the preparations and nesting through the years, as we worked together – successfully and not – as a couple and then as parents of two beloved children. like the chickadees, we had no guarantees – we just worked at it, best we could.
i look back – as we all might do – and see the moments in time we might have done better, might have made different choices, might have pecked at the edges of the entrance to our house instead of other things we did – things that would have finessed our home in lieu of harming it in some way or another. but we are human and our failings are as numerous as our triumphs. it is easier now – years later – to offer generous grace to our best attempts, despite how it all turned out. our two children are good people in the world – making their way in work, in their own passions, in love.
i am grateful for those years. i am grateful to have married a man back then who also tried his best to build a life together. as in any relationship, we brought different baggage with us – some of which was surmountable, some of which made life challenging. we started out pretty young. time has smoothed out the edges – pecking off the sharp parts – and what remains is softer, gentler, accepting. it is with deep affection that i now tell the tales of our thirty years together.
d and i met twelve years ago now – after six months of being daily email penpals. this year will celebrate the 10th anniversary of our wedding on a warm and sunny october day.
we have done our share of edge-pecking. we have finessed our home and stood vigil for each other. we have shared in the hardships of nature and the passing of time – for that – the passing of time – seems exponentially fast starting later in life. we have been fortunate and we work at it, best we can.
i am grateful for these years. i am grateful to have married a man who is also trying his best to build a life together. as in any relationship, we brought different baggage with us – some of which has been surmountable, some of which made or makes life challenging. we started out later in middle age. but time smooths out the edges – pecking off the sharp parts – and what remains is softer, gentler, accepting. it is with deep affection that i tell the tales of our life together. it is with humble and immense gratitude that i look into the future with him.
there is no telling what chickadees may do in life. but they seem to realize the very preciousness of it as they zealously prepare and tend their life together with another chickadee. sometimes they stay with the same mate all their lives. and sometimes they don’t. either way, chickadees have strong pair bonds – which is the very best we can all do for each other.
but here – on the coast of lake michigan – with very specific circumstances – we are socked in with fog. it rolled in on cloudy waves. it lingers in the trees and hangs over the street. it brings with it a damp cold – much different than a couple miles inland. the lakefront is its own weather system.
it was a foggy morning, soupy and grey. we put on extra layers. we left to hike one of our favorite river trails. it was sunny there – so much so that we were shedding those extra layers of clothing.
and, then, on that same day in the early evening, we watched the advection fog stake claim to the neighborhood again, just as it had done that morning and for the past mornings.
all the same day.
and so we sat in the quiet of the fog as it surrounded us, our home, our ‘hood.
and, just as we didn’t know what the people in the sun were doing, neither did they know we were sitting in a blanket of dense fog.
we don’t know what we don’t know.
but isn’t it our job – as humans living in nation-wide community with each other – to seek knowledge of the other? of others’ circumstances?
are we culpable for an awareness of other-ness?
if i am on the lakefront and you are inland, do i care about you, do you care about me?
is there a line – somewhere between the lake and inland or in this country – that divides the needs of the people? is there a line – somewhere between the north and the south, the east and the west – that divides the needs of the people? is there a line – of race, of ethnicity, of orientation, of birth circumstance, social ladder-climbing, status, society’s trappings – that divides the needs of the people? is there a line – somewhere between the haves and the have-nots or the have-it-alls and the have-nothings – that divides the needs of the people?
where is compassion? a sense of decency? of humanity?
there is – apparently – no line that is too low for what is happening in this country now.
how is it that people – real people – mean so little to this administration?
and i think about those people – humans – who are cheering this on. i wonder how they have been seduced.
have they read the bills, the laws, the executive orders, the project, the intentions?
do they realize that this is decimating our country – the same country that is their country?
do they even give a second to wondering how all this cruelty, greed, destruction, moral corruption is “great”?
is their lack of concern because it does not directly impact them…yet? do they even know if it does?
is their state of great glee because it’s sunny where they are right now?
do they know that weather systems are not static, that they travel and affect communities at will, that it could be them next?
how can they linger in their cold dense fog – oblivious and unconcerned?
“if you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.” (hal borland)
it was the first tree i have ever bought.
i know plenty of people who buy trees, spend lavishly on shrubs, bushes, flowers, on landscaping, have much knowledge about plants and flowers and such. but i – well, we – are neophytes in the gardening category.
my sweet momma loved plants, including outdoor plants around our house back on long island. but they were simple heritage plants – hostas and daylilies, hydrangea, four o’clocks. all easy to cultivate – and easy to transplant cuttings from friends. i don’t remember spending any of my growing-up years browsing nurseries with my parents while they tried to decide which new plants to purchase, with no regard to price tag. there was the occasional vegetable garden out back where the round above-ground pool had been and maybe a new houseplant or two but propagating by division was my momma’s way and, with a garden full of nostalgia-type plants, she instilled in me an appreciation for the simplest, for the less-is-more on-a-shoestring approach.
in my own planting through the years i have found that i have mimicked my momma’s style. cuttings from friends, transplanting excess from others’ gardens into my own, it has been gardening-on-a-budget. my purple iris, my lavender garden were from the gardens of dear friends. though stunning, they did not sustain long-term as my neighbor planted snow-on-the-mountain on the other side of the fence and it completely smothered my more delicate garden. our wild geranium came from the beautiful garden of a dear friend out east. our hostas and our daylilies and ferns spent some time rolling down third avenue in a wheelbarrow when another friend was paring down her over-producing garden. we did purchase the first of our ornamental grasses, but now they not only sustain but are capable of filling in many gaps in our garden by their own – or our – cultivating. we annually, now, purchase a few flowers in tiny packs from flats for pots – though the woman who bought five gorgeous big plants at $16.99 each in front of us did made me a little bit envious. each year, now, as you already know, we are also planting herbs on our potting stand – there is joy in stepping outside with snippers while cooking. all in all, there is minimal purchasing going on – which lines right up with minimal knowledge. what we do know is that we really love our gardens, simple as they are.
that brings me to trees. i cannot remember my parents purchasing trees while i was growing up. we lived in a wooded area and just enjoyed the trees with which we were gifted naturally. though as i write that i recall a dogwood tree out front to the left of the driveway. i wonder if that was a special tree that they bought…or maybe the mimosa tree out front with its beautiful pink fluff flowers….so maybe there was a tree or two….
i can, however, attest to the fact that i had never in my life purchased a tree to plant outdoors. not in new york, not in florida, not in new hampshire, not in wisconsin. neither has d. not in colorado, not in new mexico, not in california, not in texas, not in kentucky, not in washington, not in wisconsin. though we love trees, tree purchases have never survived the budget cuts. until breck.
outside the city market in breckenridge, colorado, the stand of trees had a big sign: “aspens – $9.99”.
$9.99??? for a tree??? one of our absolute favorite trees???
we purchased it before even checking to see if it would fit in littlebabyscion. and, because I’ve written about it before, you know the rest of the story. it’s now been almost 8 years since we brought breck home. we have held our breath, whispered quiet prayers, wrapped blankets around it, researched how to attain its best health. and through it all – living in a pot – and then a bigger pot – on the deck, disliking the shady fern garden into which we planted it – tucked next to the garage, and the big transplant to where it is now – it has not only patiently survived, but it has flourished. breck is now as tall as the side of the garage, as tall as the first story of the house. it seems happy and well-adjusted to its life in the ornamental grass garden, a spot for birds to linger, the object of our love.
maybe someday there will be a reason to buy another tree. we may have more space somewhere or more desire for shade or a wish for a stand of aspen or – the real factor – a bigger budget.
in the meanwhile, i feel incredibly content with our one tree purchase. breck is – obviously – ridiculously dear to us. it is a song of success in our simple backyard.
“trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.” (kahlil gibran)
a few years ago we watched a show about housing in the bay area of california. the housing crunch was producing outlandishly high rents, making it impossible for workers – particularly younger people at the outset of their careers – to live anywhere near where they worked. an answer – it seemed – was to offer sleeping pods – bunk bed pods stacked upon each other or next to each other – in a communal living space. with very mixed reviews to these confined space morsels, people moved in and made tiny personal space within communal living their home.
in the many years that our girl was working in the snow industry of the high elevation mountains, she – like every other professional snowboard or ski coach or instructor, every other industry worker from restaurants, boutiques, ski shops, etc – was faced with the impossible task of finding a place to live. costs far outweighed earnings and, so, either these dedicated employees shared spaces (often questionably-worthy of passing basic health standards) renting the rights to a bedroom and a shelf in the refrigerator or they drove extended commutes in all kinds of treacherous weather. it was nerve-wracking, to say the least, as a mom – ever concerned with the daily living conditions of her child (who was far more tolerant of the living conditions than i might have been). post-pandemic exacerbated these circumstances and rentals are scarce or aggressively priced.
for the longest time we have watched house hunters on hgtv. though there are many fix-up kinds of shows, our favorite is the basic house hunters where you watch people select a home to purchase from three homes you virtually-visit with them. you are aware that there have been many other homes considered before this ultimate decision, but you are steeped in the choice between three – with the information of their purchasing budget, their desired amenities and location and a walking tour through the house. it is astounding to us – over and over again – how much a basic house costs these days. we watch – totally immersed – and try to decide which house will be chosen, always blown away by what that choice will cost the buyers.
and each day – for a multitude of reasons – we thank our own home. its old house juju suits us. it is our sanctuary. it looks like us, feels like us, buffets us from the world and renews us. every one of its quirks – that we love – reminds us to love our own quirks. every one of its tiny beauties reminds us of our own tiny beauties. we find peace there and we find a jumping-off place for challenges and self-exploration.
and as i write this, i am aware that – if we are lucky enough to have any physical place we call home – we each make it into what we need. we embrace whatever its circumstance, its location, its imperfection or perfection. we find the space where we feel comfort and reassurance and the ability to be exactly who we are.
some day we would love to travel in an old vw minibus (or one of those amazing converted vans our son-in-law creates), carrying with us all we need for extended periods of time, seeking home in high mountains and canyonlands, deserts or meadowlands, atlantic or pacific beaches, northern forests.
some day we would love to thru-hike one of the national trails, carrying all we need in backpacks on our backs.
either way, i’m pretty certain – even now, even before we have tried either dream – we will feel at home, at peace, in our skin.
“remember, the entrance door to the sanctuary is inside you.” (rumi)
barney has been stalwart, steadfast, unwaveringly standing in the garden through every infamous weather challenge – the rain, the sleet, the snow, the ice and the wind, the extreme heat, the drought.
it is one of the most gorgeous things in our backyard. we have watched it age, its wrinkles, its furrows, its jowls. we have watched it struggle to stay young, fresh, shellacked. we have watched it give in – to time and the elements. and, in that giving-in-ness, we have watched grace in real life.
in this insane world, i have thanked our old house and its painted-wood countertops, its old floors, its cracked plaster, its doorknob-less six panel doors. i have admired the tile floor in the bathroom and the way light streams in through the double-hungs. i have relished the paintings on our walls and the fabulous chunks of concrete that serve our living room. i have whispered to our house and i have thanked its familiarity and its comfort. i have taken refuge in its security. i have reveled in our comforter, our dogga at our feet, coffee by our side, happy lights. i have simplified need and put want to the side.
in this insane world, i have patted littlebabyscion as i get in and out, stroked big red as i have walked past it in the driveway. i have noted with great appreciation the wild geranium and the day lilies pushing up through cold dirt, the buds on breck. i have sat on adirondack chairs on the deck – still a bit bundled up – watching birds and squirrels, sipping wine and eating maybe too many chips. i have been grateful.
and i have gazed at barney-the-piano, over there, in the garden. i have felt it steadying me.
in this insane world, i have thanked barney.
“pardon my sanity in a world insane.” (emily dickinson – and barney)
and 66 years ago today my sweet momma anxiously awaited her very next day – the day she would have surgery and i would be born. i’m grateful for her courage to have another child – even after almost a decade had gone by. i’m grateful for her bravery knowing there would be a caesarean section and recuperation, discomfort. i’m grateful for her fortitude to have me, even though she was older than most other moms having babies. and so, on that next day, i found my way home – into the air and the sun, a place of dandelions and daffodils.
home is sometimes elusive. we watch many people chase it on house hunters, seeking big and new and granite-y and double-sinked and updated and maintenance-free. we look around us – in our living room under a furry throw – at our old plaster walls, wood floors and the et al of a 1928 house – and we express gratitude. we are not chasing home. we are there. we have found each other and that – that very thing – has brought us home.
it is rare that we must follow cairns while hiking, as we are not in the backcountry as much as we wish to be. but if it is that one day we thru-hike long trails, then we will follow stacks of rocks to help us find our way. we will count on them as guideposts.
during this time of utter chaos in our country, we are not recognizing things and people around us – near and far – as the home we have understood. we are astounded by the fast changes and the cheering squad supporting the overturning of goodness. the guideposts of normal have disappeared, the landmarks are skewed. wise cairns have been demolished. we are disoriented.
we took a walk along the lakefront in our ‘hood. right over by the beach house where we had the food truck, daisy cupcakes and bonfire of our wedding, there was a path down to the beach. we took it.
oftentimes, there are cairns on this sand – beautiful towers of lakefront rocks – standing tall off the edge of the surf. but there were no cairns.
so we built one.
a pilgrimage point. a token reminder – we are here. we have found our way.
we are home. and we will find our way through the rest. together.
it is a tough time to travel. at least for me. i feel – well – safer at home these days. tucked into our sweet old house doing our thing.
but we had an opportunity to visit old friends, see new things, experience a different landscape. and we were fortunate enough to be able to take it.
this place we have traveled to – beautiful. another part of this stunning sea to shining sea. we move about airports with thousands of people – all different – with languages and accents and clothing choices and faces all swimming around us. such diversity. we can feel the riches of this melting pot.
and we miss home. where our dogga waits for us and 20 has dinner hot. where our studios and our pillows are. where no make-up and sweats are a default. where we sous-chef and cook side by side in our old kitchen, nourishing not just our bodies but our souls as well.
it doesn’t take new eyes to see it all. but the gentle reminder is always a good thing.
to go and come back.
nothing like it.
“the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” (marcel proust)
i pulled off quickly – into a small lot overlooking the lake – because i knew that it would soon cease to be there – this striping of snowy beach, lake, storm, clouds and sky. soon it would disappear – maybe in moments – this differentiation of color – this horizon – soon it would become mostly gray. soon the textures would blend and it would become flat.
i am – we are – in the middle – once again – of a big attempt to clean out. thirty-five plus years of accumulation is a lot to go through and re-organize, donate, discard. every single thing takes longer than you might think. and, frankly, i am not anxious to go through it faster, to flatten it all out into neat-and-tidy in as short a time as possible.
i actually want to see all the textures of all this time. i am – figuratively – pulling off into the overlook so that i might gaze and reflect, remember and feel.
already, i’ve come upon surprises. already, i’ve been given a chance to remember tiny details i had forgotten. already, i’ve danced through children’s books and old vcr tapes, cassettes from the 70s and scraps of lyrics tucked deep in desk drawers. there is much to be done, but i’m in no rush. our focus will mostly be right here – in this era of national upheaval – and we will take our sweet time.
“everything takes so much longer than you think,” stating the obvious, i looked over at d, immersed in his own tasks of our cleaning-out.
“that’s ok,” he replied.
“yeah,” i sighed. “no need to rush,” a promise to go slow.
there’s plenty of time for neat and tidy, organized and pared down.
in the meanwhile, the textures of decades are on the horizon. in closets. in the basement. in the attic.
reverse threading 