i am writing this on the next day. the day after spring. it is now winter again. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter these days. i’m wondering if that is a product of age and stage, as 20 says.
mostly, it convinces us that we need to have a sense of humor. about all things. even the weather.
we sit writing this – snow outside – windows closed – heat on (though not much because i am a curmudgeon about the heat). yesterday we sat writing – birds and sunshine outside – windows open – heat off. it is off again, on again. the tease of time.
tomorrow it is march. and suddenly, i am in the month of my 65th birthday. i am in the month of medicare. i am in the month of the supplement vs the advantage plan. i am in the month of part d. i am in the month of whoa!!
and i wonder – where did the time go? wasn’t it spring yesterday? wasn’t it summer and delicious fall? how is it that i glance in the mirror and an almost-65 stares back?
it truly is the tease of time. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter. and – more and more – my investment in them is getting bigger and bigger – each individual day in each individual week in each individual month in each individual year.
the next day is all well and good. but it’s today that matters right now.
for a few days – just a few, mind you – wisconsin had a tad bit of spring.
it was early as all heck, but it was pretty nice and, i must say, it made us yearn for r-e-a-l spring.
tonight – after we all get through the tornado watches and warnings – the temperature will drop fast and it will snow in the ‘morrow. que sera sera.
in the meanwhile, we watched for the truly lovely signs. the confused crocuses, the birds in the morning light, the afternoon sun on the wall of our neighbor’s garage. and, for a couple of days, we sat outside as we could, reveling in untimely weather.
we will have an attitude check tonight and tomorrow morning as we greet a day with a feels-like of about 65 degrees less than today.
but this is wisconsin. and if you decide to live here you must go with the flow.
we are writing these posts late in the day – unusual for us. i look out the window at a maybe-little-foreboding sky. we hope for the violent storms to dissipate and we prepare for winter to re-arrive.
there are no shadows on the brick wall now. it’s all becoming a little monochromatic grey out there.
and i think that – though i thoroughly enjoyed the tilt toward spring, the nod of warmth and rejuvenation – i might have rathered a normal trajectory from winter to spring…something that wouldn’t wreak havoc on people in its path, something that didn’t include tornado sirens or talk-talk of quarter-plus-size hail.
but i suppose that life is just not like that.
instead, it is all a surprise and never truly predictable. nothing to take for granted.
and i’m ready to retreat to the basement. just in case.
this is david’s year. the year that his grass (aka our grass) might – just might – even a tad – a smidge – a skosh – a teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini-bit – look like dan’s.
dan is The GrassKing. his lawn is manicured and beautiful. it feels lovely beneath your feet and, crosshatch-cut, looks lovely as well. tidy and healthy and green – all the things all those brochures tout – the ones that arrive in our mailbox, tucked into our front door, rubberbanded onto the doorknob of the screen, stuffed under the welcome mat. there are many-many-many companies out there that believe we need their help.
we don’t need their help.
we just need dan.
and so, we wait for instructions. he swings by to examine our poor front yard, post-demolition by the company that eradicated the lead water pipes and everything else in its excavation. he texts, “looks pretty good.” we breathe a sigh. luckily, he also texts, “call me.” he is our grass-hero and we love him for it.
you might think that you know all the special devices and products for lawncare. all kinds of spreaders and seeders and sprinklers and milorganite mixes and shade/sun helpers and weed and feed and lawnmowers and edgers. goodness!
the one thing you might not be aware of? the meat thermometer.
the soil must be exactly right for overseeding. and the only way to know is to set those grilling steaks aside.
breck is leafing out now. tender chartreuse mini-leaves populate its small branches. we are not quite at put-away-the-winter-coat but we are definitely at hope-springs-eternal. leaves! surprise! spring. already! but it’s just an aspen. and it’s just budding.
no, there is no “just”.
i suppose surprise is exactly that – surprise. it is that which we are pleasantly startled by – like fragile leaves – or that which we are astonished by – or astounded by – or by which we are stunned into silence. the things we would not expect of nature, of others, of ourselves, of a community, of life itself – these things surprise us. and in the winter of surprise, the winter of fallout – no matter how long the season lasts for us – we find ourselves underground, sending out roots, trying to stabilize, to process, to center ourselves, to recuperate.
there are those who peripherally try to help. they try to encourage moving on, letting go. their words are often statements that start with “it’s just…”. it is hard to listen to another person when their first words minimize that which you are going through. i remind myself not to use this word – “just”. it’s like the word “fine” for me. neither here nor there, “fine” sits somewhere in the middle of the emotional spectrum, not committing to either side. “just” sits in alphabetical order to the right of “fine”and the left of “let go” and “move on”.
we brought breck home from the high mountains, a sapling, a tiny piece of that which we dearly love. the aspens quake up there – the slightest of breezes brings their song. it was 2017 and, in the way of not-knowing, we didn’t know what the future would hold for us or for breck or for the world. time has now gone by – six years of time – and we look back, both in awe and shuddering. it has not been “just” six years.
it’s been Six Years. and there is not likely one of us who – without pause – can say it “just” went by.
“accept. adjust. arise,” she said.
breck has withstood it all, accepting its new home, the new everyday details of its life. transplanting, drought, heavy rain, sleet, snow, freezing temperatures, heat indexes over 100. it has adjusted and adjusted. so have we.
now, breck’s buds have turned to chartreuse. not “just” green. instead, a brilliant shade of living. it’s rising-rising-rising.
with gordon lightfoot crooning in my ear, i stroked the pussywillows on the trail. i can’t remember seeing these on trail before. i know i would have noticed – their softness begs touch.
“pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses rain pools in the woodland, water to my knees shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”
smooth silvery-grey under our fingertips, we each took time to touch, to marvel at the beauty. and gordon lightfoot sang on in my mind.
as a writer, composer, lyricist, there are decisions one must make along the way. we place ourselves in a vulnerable spot, not for our own purpose or indulgence, but, instead, in the hope of resonating with someone who needs the words or music or lyrics we write, in the hope of reaching someone else walking in similar shoes, in the hope of assuring someone out there who needs to know they are not alone. and so, at the risk of thus vulnerably over-sharing, i offer this:
but some things are triggers. and, as the verses and guitar continued, this particular gordon lightfoot song is one of them. my #metoo was at the hands of a musician, a serial predator who walks freely even today. he played guitar and charmed his way into the never-to-forget-lives of many susceptible young women. a man who softly sang gordon lightfoot and james taylor, who wrote love songs, new lyrics for gorgeous SATB hymns, and taught guitar surely was to be trusted, right? wrong.
i can appreciate these beautiful pussywillows, another harbinger of spring and new life. but i stop a moment and give nod to my much earlier self. in a watershed, i recognize the parallel of this earliest time working in the church and my latest work. bookends.
“riding on the roadside the dust gets in your eyes”
it’s not the dust that brings tears to my eyes, it’s not the spring air laden with newness of pollen, the turning of season. it’s the raw bookended time in places i trusted as safe. i cannot help now but examine it all up close, process it, grieve the loss of innocence, the devaluing of women, abhor the loss of respectful truth and the reign of agenda. the bookends hold upright the time in-between, all the books of life, times and experiences and mistakes and successes, the laying down of any attempt to process, to make right, of any ramifications for the wrongdoer. the bookend of late was a stunning surprise. i am astonished at its destruction, now, no longer a teenager. i find it all shockingly galling.
“slanted rays and colored days, stark blue horizons”
the horizon is much like the horizon all those decades ago. it’s surprising to return to that feeling. i want to leave, to run, just like that other time, that other bookend. my physical life, however, is not at stake this time. it is me, my loss of community, my loss of position, stolen integrity. i cannot wrap my head around the slanted rays, the starkness.
“treasuring, remembering, the promise of spring pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”
treasuring, remembering. promises. but roses…the flower of love…it is hard to hear lyric of roses…my hope is to only hear gordon lightfoot in my mind’s eye and to forget the echoing bookends.
“shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring”
to remember – spring is beginning to spring. the catkins of the willows are soft, cattails seed in the wind, warm circles us on the trail.
there is a single dried daisy on the dashboard of littlebabyscion. it’s been there now for just shy of ten years. i don’t suppose it really even looks like a daisy anymore, but it is. it’s one of the first daisies – well, one of our first daisies – from our first meeting a decade ago.
when we clean the inside of littlebabyscion, we are careful around the daisy – for surely, it could easily turn to dust after all this time tucked into the dash. if that happened, i’m quite sure we would survive. it is merely a marker, a relic of the start. time – and the we of this story – continue on. even – someday – after the dust.
she told me that she could see a small green shoot. in between all the beautiful dried daisy dust and the dust of fallow and the dust of disappointment and the dust of challenge, a small green shoot. she reminded me that all of creation is starting anew now in this season of spring and that we are no more and no less of creation than the new daisies or striped squill or dandelions or grand tulips and budding aspens and flowering dogwoods and early redbuds or cherry trees. we are no more or no less than the creatures busily preparing their nests for new birth. we are no more or no less than any planets lining up in the night sky. we are, like everything else, shimmering stardust.
i can feel the green. it shows up with the open window to my side. it shows up with the sun on my face. it shows up – roaring – in the wind from the west and it shows up – quietly – in the east side of the sunset.
in the decimated woods of the trail we love there is green sneaking up between the mulched branches and underbrush. the energy of the green is contagious. new possibility on the horizon…to abstract, to notice, to build upon.
nothing can quell the energy of stardust. no matter when. it – like everything – continues on and on, vibrating in absolute connection. a metamorphosis of seasons. daisies on the dashboard.
it sounds like you should grill it and have it with rice pilaf, some sort of midwestern whitefish.
it’s not.
crunch’s stripahs, back then, in the day, were striped bass, so these tiny blooms would not truly bear his nickname.
it’s these “invasive” flowers that are decorating our yard these days, paving the way for the dandy dandelions. they are actually quite beautiful. “puschkinia” in plural, which sounds like an americanized-botched-spelling plural of a mini version of those ridiculously yummy sweet-filled polish paczki donuts. everything sounds like something.
for me, peering for spring in the front yard, they are a sure sign of hope. early arrivers these early stardrift, they signal that maybe-just-maybe the snow is over and maybe-just-maybe warm sun will take over where cold march days left off. they are harbingers of open windows and adirondack chair time and basil sharing space with cherry tomato plants and flipflops. so much anticipation in tiny flowers.
these days are unseasonably warm. we are not sure why the jet stream seems to be blessing us with this gift but we are elated to walk in degrees that are in the sixties and even seventies. spring in wisconsin has never – in my experience – been a season of warmth. i remember too many soccer and baseball seasons huddled under blankets tucked into my bagchair. but this one is different.
next week is supposed to be back in the fifties. but even those temperatures are happy for us. maybe-just-maybe i’ll get a glimpse of forsythia one of these days, a sure sign of spring on growing-up long island.
they chopped down, chainsawed, mulched, chemicalized, burned. they decimated the whole forest to eliminate the invasives. and – in the way of oncological medicine, of environmental eradication programs, of corporate and organizational ousting – the good cells may somehow survive, burned edges and all.
to be a tree with burn marks is to be human. one cannot traipse through this life without them. we all carry with us whatever balm has helped us get through the fires. we lean on the surety that spring will come, eventually.
as we hike the trail, we know that it is not one hundred percent that only the good will keep on. it is not a certainty. instead, it is a risk, a gamble, that there may be cells that escape treatment, there may be invasives that escape annihilation, there may be people-in-power-with-ill-intent who either escape the pointed fingers or are the ones corruptly pointing them.
and in those cases, the worry is that those cells will reproduce, those invasives will take over and choke out the organic, those people will destroy the place. a ravaging burn. devastation. and the good cells, the good plants, the good people will be left to fend for themselves, to remain upright – stalwart – to grow despite the odds.
it is good friday for those who are keeping a religious calendar. a day of destruction following betrayal and many burned edges. as this sacred story goes, three days later there is a resurrection. and the targeted jesus rises.
as we hike the trail, we notice the green shoots growing out of the ground, their top leaves still blackened. we marvel at the tenacity of these plants as they garnered energy best-as-they-could, regardless of the burn. the good xylem and phloem somehow survived.
there are naturalists who are watching closely, tending to the native plants best as they can. there are doctors and nurses and researchers and clinical trial experts who are watching closely, tending to patients and health and life best as they can. there are, therefore, it would seem, allies who are dedicated to the truth, to transparency, to the best parts of an organization who are watching closely, tending to the burns of the sacrificed.
“i want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.“ (oriah mountain dreamer)
shrinking back will allow the devastation. standing in the fire – the center of the fire – will allow the resurrection.
*****
“and you were there in all of my suff’ring.
you were there in doubt, and in fear;
i’m waiting on the dawn to reappear...” (you were on the cross – m.mayer, k.butler, a.assad)
and today – despite the dirt and the dried stems, vestiges of life-gone-past – despite the cold and the snow and the ice and the rain and all the elements that have torn into this plant and the critters that have refuged under its branches – despite the sun and the drought and no added nutrients and almost no attention whatsoever – small clusters of brassica-like buds have sprouted out of the ground.
they have persevered, they have sought rebirth, they have wiped away their tears of disappearance and their underground fallow and they have risen up, one tiny millimeter at a time, unnoticed until now, shoots of green in all the brown.
they have not been considered marvelous. they are not rare. they are not exquisite blooms, fragile petals, filmy tendrils connecting them to their lifesource. instead, they are curled cabbages, tightly wound and unwinding.
they are a little bit haughty at the spring and its sweet-time-taking. they are persistent, resilience at their core, hardy, paying no mind to the rules of march or april or, really, any season. they wait for no one to move the leaves and debris of winter. they are independent.
this new year of growth, this new season of their sedum-lives is pushing out of the good earth – despite all odds. they keep on keeping on, mustering up next and next, pushing aside all doubt, surely panting in their phoenix.
in my recollection, my sweet momma didn’t buy flats of flowers with the arrival of spring. my mom and dad didn’t run nursery to nursery purchasing new shrubbery or plants to add to the gardens around our home. they didn’t pore over landscaping catalogs nor research shade and sun preferred plantings. though it didn’t occur to me then, i realize now – and empathize – that they couldn’t afford it.
the half-acre piece of long island on which i grew up was beautiful and natural and serene. along one side of the house – a little bit shady – were four-o-clocks and bleeding hearts. along the other side were hosta. in the front corner and along the side where the neighbors-who-had-the-nice-weimaraner lived there were forsythia. on the other side where the neighbors-who-had-the-weimaraner-who-bit-me lived there were rose of sharon. we had rhododendron and i can’t remember what else in the front garden. but they all came back; they were perennials. because anything annual, well, i don’t think that was in the budget.
and so i guess i have come by it honestly. it wasn’t a “thing” when i grew up to run out and purchase – before anyone else picked them all over – flats of this year’s preferred annual flowers. it wasn’t a “thing” to plant hanging baskets and wooden barrels or giant clay pots with flowers for the season. it was expensive then and it’s expensive now. i learned early to appreciate the simplest garden, the natural setting of a woods, the reassuring return of perennials you have nurtured and which, likely, came from cuttings someone else gifted to you.
when i first moved to wisconsin, it was a full-impact moment when may arrived and everyone was talking about the flowers they would plant. friends and neighbors would dance gracefully into planting season and the ballet seemed a bit foreign, a bit out-of-reach. the quietly-popular greenhouses were divulged to me; i purchased a small trowel and got to it. impatiens and waxed begonia and petunia flats later, to no avail i had tried to avoid the pressure. each year posed the angsty question of color – for there are trends, i found, obvious by the missing palettes at the nurseries.
my momma and my dad loved their garden. they loved their indoor plants as well. and, when they planted vegetables out back next to – but far enough away from – the dog run, they loved those too. mostly, they loved the trees canopying our house and yard, the woods out back, the tiny lily-of-the-valley next to the old shed. i never heard them utter a peep wishing for more. i never felt – growing up – that i had missed out, not having new flowers or plants each year.
yet, here i was – i am – living in a place and time where that seems to be of vital importance. and i have wondered why this urge, this spring-flower-purchasing-extravaganza doesn’t come naturally to me. i know it’s not because i don’t love flowers.
we walk and hike through the woods. no matter whether the forest trail takes us into the mountains or along the low elevation of a river in the midwest, we notice the floor of greenery, the flowers growing wild, color and shape, exquisite all.
once again this year – like last – we won’t purchase annual flowers. the plants we will add for our summer will be cherry tomato plants, basil, lemongrass, perhaps lavender. we will appreciate the tenacity of our hosta and our ferns, the spreading wild geranium, the stubborn return of our daylilies, the tender peonies, our aspen sapling, the ever-present grasses. we cheer on the groundcover sally gave us and the groundcover sneaking under the fence in its every-year attempt to take over the garden. we celebrate the simplicity and wish that our front yard – in its water-main-replacement-utter-mess – wouldn’t require neat and tidy grass replacement, a huge and costly job to remove old sod and stray cement poured from the temporary sidewalks and various strewn deposits of rubber and metal and rocks.
my sweet momma and dad adored the yard of my growing-up home. they didn’t pass on to me the necessity of more. instead, they passed on to me an embracing of simplicity, gratitude for what-we-have and the appreciation of other gardens – friends’, neighbors’, public botanic celebrations of gorgeousness. they passed on the love of feral forests of jack-in-the-pulpit and the crowning glory of trillium.
reverse threading 