pretty much each year – for years – we have had a frog in our pond out back.
but this year there was simply nothing.
to say we were disappointed would understate how much these frogs have meant to us. we were pretty sad and wondered if we had done something that had inhibited a frog from choosing our tiny pond as a summer home.
until a few days ago.
d had seen a glimpse of green hopping in the water a few days prior, but we could not tiptoe up to the pond quietly enough to see it sunning on a rock or watching the world go by, tucked into a nook or cranny. we thought it was simply a momentary visit.
on thursday, though, we had a lucky day. and, as we stood quietly at the side of our pond, scouring the edges for a sighting of a frog, there he was.
little.
we named him “little” not at all having to do with his import to us, but because he seemed one of the smallest frogs to have lived in our pond.
you would have thought we had found gold coins hidden in the rocks of our water feature – our excitement was off the charts.
and – because every frog needs a theme song – i could instantly hear his in my head (sung to the tune of sugar, sugarby the archies): little – ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ oh, little little ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ you are our tiny frog/ and you got us hop-hoppin. (etc etc etc)
each year has brought a different reason to look for the meaning of a frog’s visit in our personal world. each year the resilience and transformation, renewal and abundance messages have been positive bits of symbolism for us and have made us feel that grace has dropped in for a visit.
this year is no different. little’s appearance has been like a single candle lit in a dark night – a warm glow, a talisman for reflection and hope.
we never know how long the frog will stay. but we do know that just making an appearance is a gift. for our small pond – in the middle of other suburban yards of grass and gardens – is maybe 18 square feet – and it seems fortuitous that a tiny frog would even find it.
but maybe somewhere in frogland there is a list…and frogs can check it – like airbnb – to see where they might find a little pond they can call their own. or maybe where it is they may be named and doted upon. or maybe where it is they might get their own theme song.
it continues to peel back. each rainstorm, each gust of wind, the ice and snow of winter, the baking hot sun…they all have impact. and the layers of barney keep peeling back. every iteration of this piano reveals its soul, a soul that never changes. despite disappearing obvious visual cues that say “piano” it is still a piano. the keys are virtually gone now, but remain, nevertheless, in essence. the stand that held music way earlier in this past century of its life has broken down. the sheen of lacquered varnish highlighting the grain of the wood has faded, melting into rays and raindrops. changed, barney is unchanged.
i wonder at the tenacity of such a soul. i wonder at the steadfastness of spirit. i wonder at how much more beautiful it continues to get – each and every day – despite all it has endured, all it endures.
there is a piano in our basement. it is my growing-up piano. it is a spinet, completely out of tune, even with itself. we had it moved down there and then built walls around the stairwell that turns and turns again, 90 degree angles making a complete 180. that piano may never be able to be moved back up those stairs. but if it could, i would bring it outside. the journey that barney has taken – with flowers and plants and chippies and squirrels – has only enhanced its real presence in the world. if i could, i would honor this old piano – this relic of my growing-up – with this same weathering of time.
though currently exponential, like most generations before us, we are living in a strange and scary time. the facade of our country is being peeled back. yet, what we are finding beneath this shiny well-lacquered veneer is not wholesome or all-american. as the soul of constitutional goodness is stripped – layer by layer, right by right, freedom by freedom – there is an ugly that is revealing itself.
when the keys are gone and the music stand is gone and the sheen is gone and the wood is splintering, falling into the garden to turn to mush, what will we find at the center of this country?
i fear it is not stalwart like barney. it is not getting more beautiful. its endurance is limited. changed, it will be changed.
i am surely turning into my parents. at least when it comes to their love of birds.
early this season – and after much research – we went to the nursery. we were set on purchasing trumpet-shaped salvia – for our hummingbirds. they didn’t have any but recommended cardinal flower, another flower that attracts these tiny birds.
we planted it in an old metal firepit out by the back fence next to the big leaf hosta, adjacent to the hummingbird feeder. and waited.
months. it has taken months for it to grow and to sport blooms. for a while we thought we would need to go find salvia, our original choice, to add to the planter. nothing was really happening with our cardinal flower.
until all of a sudden.
it shot up tall – almost as tall as the fence. and then, to the drumroll of the universe and its independent timing, stunning red blooms began to open. and, in a validating moment of glee, we watched a hummingbird hover next to multiple blooms and drink from them. finally.
this cardinal flower should have come with a note attached – “please be patient”. as it is a perennial, we hope it will return next year as well in this big metal urn. but we will plant some salvia just inside the perimeter of the urn next spring, because, well, we aren’t all that patient.
in the meanwhile, I’ve kept our red glass hummingbird feeder freshened and ready for any hummers on the move. it is completely delightful to watch them zoom in – they know the feeder is there – a tiny gps keeps track of these things in their tiniest brains. it never ceases to amaze us.
just like the birds who swoop in to the feeder out back or land on the edge of the birdbath, one of our favorite purchases from a couple years ago. they know. seemingly, word has spread to the house finches that we have grape jelly, word has spread to the sparrows we have dirtbath access, word has spread to the robins we have water to sip, word has spread to the cardinals we have easier access to food. because it is obvious that they know.
we couldn’t be more proud.
it starts for us when we wake to the sounds of early birds outside our windows. and, at the end of the day, out on the deck in the waning sun, we watch the swallows and bats compete for airspace while other birds seem to be finding shelter and places to rest.
yes, my parents used to sit for hours watching the birdlife. they seemed absolutely content, quietly observing and talking about feeders and birdhouses.
almost every time we mosey around an antique shoppe – likely every time – i find myself musing about how no one should buy anything new. at all. ever. we should all just go peruse antique shoppes, flea markets, thrift stores, for – in those places just brimming over with possibility – it is probable that we would find all we need. and more.
we really do love a good antique boutique filled with vintage treasures just waiting to be re-homed.
because i agree with annie leonard (greenpeace), “there is no such thing as ‘away’. when we throw anything away it must go somewhere,” we have not yet disposed of our (decades and decades) old range. we have, instead, cherished it and putzed with it when it was struggling. but it is not in a landfill somewhere and, for that and for its long, long lifeline, i am grateful.
we were on the quest for a single ladder – to add to our deck with a purple sweet potato vine. we wanted a bit of interest over in the corner and found a stack of single ladders outside our favorite antique shoppe. but in the steps between where we parked big red and the ladder stack, there was this little garden table. d instantly stopped and drew it to my attention.
because our backyard is – indeed – our sanctuary, a small peeling paint white garden table could be the perfect addition – over there, on the deck, next to the railing that defines the potting stand garden.
$20.
but there is a sale. 20-40% off.
we buy our chosen ladder (who knew there were so many different widths?) and bring it out to the truck, ready to leave.
but that garden table.
it called us as we walked by. the second time.
so we went back to look at it, to wonder at its story, at where it had been, at its character as evidenced by its patina.
we snapped a photo and went inside – just to ask.
because we have been there many, many times, the gal at the checkout knows us. she asked me what I wanted to pay (though we weren’t yet sure we wanted to purchase it.) i replied $10 and her quick answer was, “sold!” i couldn’t help but wonder what a small garden table with as much joie de vivre would cost in a retail shop, a garden store, a catalog.
we happily loaded up this small sweet table and readily re-homed it on that spot on the deck, placing a soft green petite licorice plant on top.
every day – several times a day – we step outside and are deeply sated by this place of sanctuary. we wander to each plant, each herb, each grass, our aspen tree, and marvel at the growth in this hot-humid-greenhouse-type summer. we express, once again, gratitude for this space and its stuff.
and we plan our next trip – just to stroll about, to tell stories as we see items with which we had grown up, to goof about purchasing items completely out of our taste or – sometimes – completely out of taste at all. it is always an adventure.
to borrow from home goods advertising, we go finding. only our finds are the things people no longer want and wish to sell, the items that may have ended up disposed of, tossed out. our finds are filled with the magic of repurpose. they have stories we don’t know and can only imagine. they have new stories we have created for them. in turn, they create a place of tranquility and easy serenity.
and in some small way, we have saved the earth – even just a little – by saving one more thing from ‘away’.
clematis is known as the “queen of climbers”. it is symbolic of ingenuity, cleverness, mental strength, all clearly relevant to this vine climbing with abandon, climbing wild and free.
out back – next to our potting stand, completely covering the metal peace sign we purchased at a tiny garden shop on the great river road, trying desperately to overtake the tomato plants on the ground and the basil on the barnwood stand – there is a clematis vine. unlike this purple clematis, it is sweet autumn clematis and will have tiny fragrant white flowers late this summer. we didn’t plant this. it was planted by our eastneighbors a few years back, seemingly to block the open visual space between yards created by the wrought iron topper to their otherwise privacy fence. in the last couple years they have not tended nor encouraged this clematis.
but it is unstoppable.
on our side of the fence it is exploding. it doesn’t seem to favor nor suffer the hot weather, the dry days, the stormy torrential rain and wind; it is ambivalent to the forecast and presses on, despite any challenges, regardless of anything in its way. the clematis finds its way around – or through – and continues growing – a burgeoning bundle of green that each day swells in size, thriving on the fence and the potting stand and the tomato and the basil’s clay pot and our wrought iron gate and scrappily winding its way through the ornamental grasses along our lot line. flourishing, flourishing.
it is not unlike women.
and right now, with the warped, conservative, backward, rights-thwarting, chauvinistic, misogynistic, downright hateful view being thrust upon this nation as policy on women, we must draw on clematis-sisu.
recently someone read a post i had written a few years back – one that included reference to an even earlier post from december 2019. it seems inexorably relevant right now and, with your grace for repetition, i’m reposting it here:
“this piece today is dedicated to all the women who have made it through, all the women who are making it through, all the women who will make it through.
your fire has brought you to the edge of the battlefield many times and you have still made lemonade; you have still prevailed.
you have made it through intensely emotionally abusive relationships. you have picked up the pieces and you have moved on.
you have made it through physical or sexual abuse. you have risen from the ashes.
you have made it through terrifying health scares. you have pulled up your boot straps and determinedly plodded through with massive courage.
you have made it through society’s prioritizing of body image and appearance. you have been measured by your cleavage or lack thereof, by the indent of your waist, by the clothing you choose, by your hair. you struggle to remember you are beautiful. you stand tall.
you have made it through vacuumous times, the middle of chaos, the middle of multi-tasking. you have created.
you have made it through physical summit experiences. you have scaled mountains. you have boarded down untracked chutes. you have trained your body with weights and exercise. you have run. you have skated. you have pedaled. you have breathed in and sighed an exhale. you’ve run thousands of lengths of playing fields. you took the next painful recuperating step. you dove to the depths. you have been on world stages. you have risen with hungry or fevered children night after night. you have competed. you have given birth.
you have made it through falling. you have made mistakes. you have been human. you have forgiven and you have been forgiven.
you have made it through an education steeped in gender-inequality and bias. you have chosen to learn more, to actively seek the resources, rights and opportunities due you, to resist against the discrimination.
you have made it through a system that undermines your success and devalues your value. you have fought for your place.
you have made it through financial challenges of single womanhood, of single motherhood. you have been scrappy and, without complaint, you have layered onto yourself however much it took to get it done.
you have made it through work situations where you’ve questioned how you would be treated were you to be a man. would you be yelled at? would your professionalism be questioned? you have asked these questions. you have stayed, holding steadfast, or you have moved on; you have decided what is best for you and moved in that direction.
you have made it through the skewed-world fray into leadership roles where your every decision is challenged or thwarted. you have overcome; you have triumphed.
you have made it through being-too-young and through aging. and you are not irrelevant.
you have made it through. you have spoken up, spoken back, spoken for. you have written letters. you have marched.
you have been pushed around. but you have pushed back. and, just like the tortoise [in the photograph accompanying this post], you have made it through.“
we are clematis. we are women. we are: all the women who have made it through, all the women who are making it through, all the women who will make it through.
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.
“peace has not broken out,” said marcus noland, executive vp of the peterson institute for international economics.
now there’s an understatement. no. peace has not broken out here in these un-united united states.
now, had they been priced a tad bit lower – ok, quite a bit lower – we might have liked to have added a metalwork alien to our backyard. but our purse strings did not allow for it and our backyard has enough stuff. besides, it’s not really our style. so we kept walking.
but the addition of the peace-loving greenguy would have been a hoot. it was rather tall and a place on our deck would guarantee visual impact for houses – and people – around us. maybe the antique flea market find would have made a positive impact on everyone around. ahh, wishful thinking. maybe not.
peace.
over the weekend we chose one day during which we did nothing. literally, just about nothing. we tended our gardens, adirondack-chair-sat and watched dogga and our birds. it was absolutely necessary. we did not scroll. we did not browse social-media. we did not read articles or newsletters. we did not watch videos or news footage. we deliberately tuned out. instead, we just simply sat.
it was a very quiet day – none of the neighbors were out – it easily became one of my favorite days lately. lots of sun, a very gentle breeze, a good throw pillow behind us, a few snacks.
because peace has not broken out, it is kind of imperative to take some – even manufactured – time of peace. we are all so immersed in the crazy, the chaotic, the mean-spirited – to separate ourselves out for a bit of time is necessary. we simply won”t endure if we walk 24/7 in the maniacal sickness of this administration.
so, with the memory of our greenfriend-of-the-market, we sat. and imagined the rest of the weekend and what all we would do with it. we drank in the stillness, reveled in our hummingbirds. we marveled at our dogga and dreamed dreams about vw minibus campers and backcountry excursions on foot.
peace was in our backyard for a bit. it had broken out with the sun and we were grateful. for just a little bit, all seemed ok.
“we come in peace,” the greenguys insist.
if only that were what they would find here on earth.
we prep and we wait. two of our friends wait as well – all of us ready to text as soon as we see one. it’s a vigil for the tiny hummingbird.
this year we were the first. the hummingbird surprised us as we adirondack-chair-sat outside. it was morning and the sun was brilliant. we were quiet as the day began to warm up. and then, suddenly, it was there.
there is something infinitely touching about that first tiny hummer. something that gives you pause.
we love our birds – all of them. we consider our birdbath one of our finest outdoor purchases. watching a black-capped chickadee or a house sparrow perch on its side and dip its head to drink, or a robin fully immersed, splashing around…it is joyous to know you have contributed in a tiny way to their precarious lives. it’s much the same with our feeders – it’s all just a reminder that we are in this same big world together.
and then the hummingbird shows up. and, after once, it remembers, just like the news spreads through other birds about the clean water birdbath or the feeders in the backyard.
and then, though invisible, there is a connection.
it was always there.
we transcend that which binds us to the pragmatic, the stuff of our lives. and we sit – watchfully – as we wait for the hummingbird’s return to the feeder. or the chickadee’s entry and exit into the birdhouse. or the cardinals – walter and irma – at the flat-based house feeder. or the sparrows dustbathing where dogga had dug. we just wait.
these are the moments. and the ones before slip away as the ones to come linger in the air. we just sit – untethered to either – our wings resting.
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)
reverse threading 