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Time to Savor

Time to Savor

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The backyard has become my secondary landscape, its trees and corners my escape hatch. Bouncing on the trampoline last evening, I marveled at the scene: low light touching leaf buds; the first green (which is gold) from the big front yard oak, which rises high above the house and at that hour was catching the rays of the setting sun.

After bouncing I lay out on the tramp to do some stretching. I kept my eyes on cirrus clouds floating lazily across the pale blue sky.  In my ears, some Enya, a studious avoidance of news.

There was little to interfere with the tableau. Few cars on the road so no loud engine noise. A still evening with no wind chiming. My work for the day complete, an evening of relaxation ahead. A sudden sense of satisfaction, of completion. This is what we have now. This is what we always have but don’t have time to savor.

Respite in the Garden

Respite in the Garden

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Weeds don’t care about viruses. They grow just as robustly during a pandemic as they do any other time. So yesterday I waded into the garden to pull out wild strawberries, dandelions and other invasive plants.

It felt good to have my hands in the earth and the sun warm on my back. It felt normal and pre-pandemic.

The mulch, when I spread it, had that same aroma it always does, and the back yard had the same discouraging bald patches it always does this time of year.  I’m hoping that our hard work now will pay off later — but, as always, I’m not counting on it.

(Violets are one weed I’ll leave alone.)

Where We Are Now

Where We Are Now

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The president has just declared a national state of emergency, the schools have closed and grocery store shelves are empty of staples and cleaning supplies. So it might seem a strange time to give my spider plant some TLC. But that’s what I’ve been doing the last hour.

The poor thing has been suffering from scale for years, but it’s been at the office, and even though a colleague with a green thumb gave me his favorite scale-eradication solution recipe, I’ve had no chance to use it … until now.

But now the plants are home with me, along with a monitor, laptop, backup disc and the folders and files I think I might need the next few weeks. Now is a good time to concoct the oily, sudsy solution and wipe off each leaf and stem. I love this plant, have had it for years. I want it to live!

It’s a micro effort in a macro-scary world. It’s where we are now.

(The spider plant in an ironic setting, since my office is not where I am now.)

Requiem for a Tree

Requiem for a Tree

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It comes down today, this mighty oak, the tallest in the yard, once a noble specimen but now a victim of drought, development and Lord knows what else. It bravely endured the amputation of its leeward half, a move that was meant to save it or at least forestall its end.  While that gave it a few more years, it was not enough. The executioners arrive in an hour to cut it down.

I’ve lost track of how many trees we’ve lost through the years, ones blown down by strong winds after soaking rains; ones felled before that can happen; and one that was cabled for years to keep it upright only to have it plunge to earth on a warm and still May morning.

I went out early this morning to say goodbye to the tree, patting its great hoary trunk, mossy and lichened. I thought of the games the children played at its feet, recalled the haphazard forsythia hedge that used to grow in front of it, the playhouse and sandbox that were there. I thought about its role in Suzanne and Appolinaire’s wedding, when, decorated with a fern, it was witness to their vows.

Once it was one of a number; now, it’s the last of its breed. There are no more 100-footers. They have died and gone away.

I know this is the right thing to do. The tree is rotting and weakened. If left to its own devices it could fall down, taking other trees and the neighbor’s shed with it. But I will miss its shade in summer and its bare branches in winter. I will miss its salute to the sky.

Pruning the Rose

Pruning the Rose

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Pruning the rose is one of the more zen-like gardening tasks. While it may seem daunting at first, once you’ve found the rhythm — deadheading the spent blooms, tracing each shoot to its origin, discovering the essential order of the plant — it becomes as engrossing as any occupation I know of.

It’s not mindless but mindful. It requires that we study each stem, follow it through a tangle of thorns and the green gardening wire I use to lash errant branches to their railings. It’s almost like entering the plant, learning its secrets, understanding it enough to diminish it, knowing that in making it less we ultimately make it more.

Gardening mirrors life in many ways — but pruning the rose mirrors it more than mowing, say, or weeding. Because in life must we often need to shed the extraneous, to find the essential and amplify it, to train first ourselves and then our children, to guide and shepherd. And that means meeting things first on their own terms.  In gardening, as in life, it’s important to pay attention.

Dearest Freshness

Dearest Freshness

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I noticed yesterday morning that the witch hazel had begun to bloom, and by mid-afternoon I caught a glimpse of two male cardinals in the tree. Of all the perches they could choose, they picked the ones closest to spring.

By the time I trained my camera on them, one had flown away. The symmetry of the shot was gone. But you can get a taste of it here.

There’s the splash of yellow flowers amidst gray limbs; the dab of red from the bird. It was a hopeful scene on a solemn day, a sign there is a “dearest freshness deep down things,” as Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote.  I’m clinging to it now.

The Hawk Next Door

The Hawk Next Door

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This morning I saw in a neighbor’s tree the unmistakable silhouette of a hawk. A wild thing partially tamed, this bird, because the neighbors (who hunt with bow and arrow) leave hunks of deer meat about for it to chew on.

If it sounds like I live in the woods or up a mountain, be assured that this is indeed the suburbs. But such is the wide array of residents here that this hawk sits hunched in contemplation, looking as if he owns the place — because he thinks he does!

I love that he’s nearby, though I’m glad I have no small cats to tempt him. But the presence of this bird of prey, his cries in the morning fog, remind me of the wild world that waits just outside my door. A world I’m just about to walk in…


(Couldn’t find a photo of a hawk, so an owl will have to do.)

A Change of Day

A Change of Day

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Yesterday began with a deluge, a rainstorm that settled in over the region and sent me into a reflective, closet-cleaning mood. Not that I actually cleaned any closets — though I did do some straightening up and pruning of old clothes in the basement.

But I had no sooner hunkered down for a day of inside work when, about noon, the rain stopped and the sun peeked out. I soon abandoned the basement chores for a walk and some outside tasks — such as cleaning up a pumpkin that was apparently mauled by hungry deer (that’s a first!).

Days with dramatic weather changes can throw off one’s rhythm and to-do list. But they can also foil the routine thinking that sends me into auto-pilot. By mid-afternoon, I decided that the best thing I could do would be to sit on the deck in the rocking chair, bask in the 70-degree temps and describe the scene in my journal.

“The low sun bends behind the big tree in the back of the yard, the one that will probably have to come down soon since half of it is already dead and the other half sports two large lifeless limbs. … Ah, but it’s lovely sitting here on the deck in the warm wind, a few clouds scudding by above, as the oaks flash yellow against the blue.”

Fading Ferns

Fading Ferns

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The ferns are fading. They’ve turned crusty and brown. In some light, perhaps, they appear golden. But that’s a stretch.

I know it’s only seasonal change, but there’s something about ferns that speak more than most plants of youth and vigor. And I feel bad for them in this sorry state.

I think back to April and the earliest tendrils, how exciting it is to see these strange things emerge from the cool and leaf-strewn soil.

I think of how well they have served us through the summer, how faithfully they have waved in the breeze, how cannily they have outwitted the hungry deer that stalk these parts.

Yes, they will be back next year, I know. And I’ll watch them unfurl and come into their own once again, perhaps even spread, as they are wont to do. But it won’t be these ferns. These ferns … are fading.

A Thicket

A Thicket

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Yesterday I heard a peep, bright and insistent. It was a sparrow roosting in the bamboo that flanks the west side of the house. The little bird found a good place to shelter.

Our bamboo grove is a mass of leaves and stems, lush and green, some bending, many still upright. I look into the tight center of it all and remember the joy of hidden places, of climbing under the forsythia when I was young, of entering the cinder trail (below) as recently as last Saturday.
It is the human need for enclosure, for a safe spot from which to peer out at the rest of the world. It’s Robinson Crusoe and his protective hedge, or our Neanderthal ancestors in their secluded cave. We don’t always need it, or always seek it out. But it’s good to know that it’s there.