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En Plein Air

En Plein Air

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Never use a long word where a short one will do. Never use a foreign phrase if you can think of an English equivalent. I looked up George Orwell’s rules for good writing when I thought of this title.

Yes, “en plein air” is longer — and more French — than “outside.” It may seem like an affectation. A highfalutin phrase.

But it seems more appropriate than “alfresco,” the other choice. “En plein air” is the French term for “in the open air” and used primarily to describe setting up an easel and painting outdoors.

Writing was my “en plein air” activity yesterday.  And the French phrase captures the deliciousness of it, even the setting-up-the-easel of it. Yesterday I gathered paper, pen, laptop and phone and moved them all outside to the deck. Suddenly my work was part of the larger scheme of things, no longer crabbed and shallow but open and expansive.

Or at least it felt that way. The first warm days of spring have a way of turning one’s head.

Backyard Moguls

Backyard Moguls

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It has been noted elsewhere that throughout most of these Winter Games, the temperature in Sochi, Russia, has been higher than in many parts of the United States. And the major weather delay there so far has been due not to blizzard but to fog.

Still, to the viewer back home, the snow-peaked Causcasus, the high-tech ski suits and the sound of cowbells can only mean one thing: It’s cold!

So, I pretend.

Olympic viewing has also skewed my sense of place. When I look at the lumpy snow in my backyard I don’t see wind-blown drifts. Instead I see moguls.

This is a temporary phenomenon. I don’t expect it to last.

Talk About Thanksgiving

Talk About Thanksgiving

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Thanksgiving’s late date has merchants worried. There is almost a full week less to shop this year than there was last!

But for those who aren’t eager for the Buying Season to begin, we have a welcome pause.

Time to catch the breath between one season and another. Time to work and write. Time to savor what we have before plunging into what we don’t. Talk about Thanksgiving!

Bouncing in the Dark

Bouncing in the Dark

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When it’s too dark to run I make my way slowly to the far edge of the backyard. I trudge through the leaves, hop on the trampoline and bounce.

Bouncing in the dark is more fun than it sounds. I can’t see the bushes that need trimming or the deck that needs power washing. I have music in my ears, a canzon by Gabrieli or a symphony by Mozart. I may be chilled at the start, but after a few minutes the cold no longer bothers me.

It’s a little bit like a sensory deprivation tank. Distractions are minimized; all that remains is the movement and the music.

The light may be fading, but bouncing makes it better.

Late Fall

Late Fall

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The colors of late fall are mature, subtle ones. The flamers, the few we had, have flamed out. What’s left are russets, dark oranges, pale golds.

When I wander in the woods, I slide through piles of dried leaves. This is where all the color has gone. Shriveled, crisped, beaten by rake and foot.

But this, I remind myself, is how new leaves begin. The soil for saplings is being crushed and created all around us. And though the brave colors are fading,  new colors are waiting in bud and stem.

The Promise of Leisure

The Promise of Leisure

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Bad weather was moving in, so I considered taking in the hammock. I scarcely used it this summer, since I had precious little down time. And the fact that we had a bumper crop of mosquitoes in the backyard didn’t help.

Still, there were a few sultry afternoons I lazed away an hour or two, staring up at the leaves or swaying to music or reading and dozing.

Besides, the hammock is not just for the body, it’s for the mind.  Simply to see it slung there so invitingly makes my shoulders drop a notch or two.

I finally decided that the hammock stands for the promise of leisure more than leisure itself.

And who wants to put that away for the summer?

Hidden Garden

Hidden Garden

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This is a corner of the yard you can’t see from inside, the outer edge of a small grove of trees that softens and shelters half the house.

Ferns, hollies, a crepe myrtle and a knockout rose are gathered here with little thought to their placement except hope that the rose and crepe myrtle would have enough light to bloom.

There is no gate, no wall or key, and it holds no fairy magic. But I like to think of this place as a hidden garden, because though it’s visible to neighbors, it is, for the most part, invisible to me.

Edging

Edging

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A walker notices boundaries. Often in the suburbs these boundaries are sidewalks, and often in the suburbs these sidewalks are edged.

And so … a brief meditation on edging, on the dividing line between concrete and soil, on the tendrils that can spread themselves across the border and on the neat way some homeowners have of highlighting this divide. 

The tool (perhaps it’s called an edger?!) that wedges itself between lawn and walkway or the whirring blade that separates weeds from lawn. Surely these are born of a need to cultivate, to order and refresh.

Though it’s easy to trip on edges, to twist the ankle or wedge the shoe, one has to admire the diligence with which some homeowners keep the wild world at bay.

I used to think edging was silly. Now I’m not so sure.

Bouncing in the Dark

Bouncing in the Dark

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Given the amount of daylight hours we enjoy, it seems ridiculous that I would run out of time and have to bounce on the trampoline after dark. But that’s exactly what’s happening. Long days and late dinners mean I’m jumping at 9:30 p.m.

Truth be told, I’m growing to like this hour. The night is alive with katydids and crickets and frog sounds. Bats swoop from tree to tree. The to-do list that formulates itself automatically when I can see what needs to be done is mercifully out of mind in the darkness.

Instead, my eyes are drawn to the house, to the lamp light glowing gold, to the kitchen window that winks and blinks as the refrigerator door is open and closed, to the people moving in and out of view.

No longer in it, I now can see it whole and entire — my sanctuary and my nemesis.

I know it’s late. I know I should go in. But I thumb through my playlists, find one more song — and keep bouncing.

Hummingbirds!

Hummingbirds!

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Yesterday I worked outside, editing articles in the heat and humidity, sitting still enough that birds and butterflies flitted by me, raising small eddies of air as they passed.

This little guy has been visiting us often. Lured by three feeders that were started early enough to get us on his (her?) gravy train. Or maybe “he” is actually “they,” a pair.

In the last two weeks I’ve sat close enough to hummingbirds to hear their wings whir and their brave little cheeps, to see them dodge bees as they angle toward the feeder. I’ve watched them fly off, sated (at least for 10 minutes), to perch briefly on the dead limb of an otherwise living red oak.

They are so tiny I can barely see them there, a bump on a branch. But I squint my eyes to observe their rare pause. Otherwise, I’ve seen them only in motion, their improbably tiny bodies vibrating with the effort of staying aloft.  Like many members of the animal kingdom, they set a good example. They never stop.