A Constant

A Constant

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Morning on the Hunter’s Woods Trail: Mozart in my ears, details in my brain, details I hoped would filter away like a dusting of snow through trampoline mesh. And the rhythm of footfall did clarify the day; it reminded me of what is most important, which is to live fully when and where we are.

I was aided in this by the appearance of wildlife: first, a fox sauntering down the trail ahead of me and then, on the drive home, a wild turkey beside the road, bobbing its head as it fled into the woods.  

The critters pulled me into the present and away from the fact that this is a departure day, which is not nearly as nice as an arrival day. 

But the warmth is finally here, and the day is as perfect in its way as the cold, windy Thursday that brought her here. Both days are required, one for coming, the other for going — with the walks a constant between the two. 

Reading O’Brien

Reading O’Brien

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Ever since I saw Edna O’Brien on Ken Burns’ “Hemingway” I’ve been reading her books. I finished the Country Girls trilogy a couple days ago and am now enjoying her memoir, Country Girl.

It’s the proper order in which to read these books, I think. Not only because the latter came 52 years after the first of the trilogy volumes, but also because it’s interesting to see what she did with the raw material before actually getting to know the raw material. 

I say this because I started reading them in the opposite order and wasn’t happy about it. So I saved the memoir for last — and am glad I did. Here’s a passage from it about Drewsboro, where O’Brien grew up:

On either side of the track there were grassy banks full of wildflowers and burdock and flowering weed, bees buzzing and disporting  themselves in and out of these honeyed enclaves, and the smell of the nettles so hot. Birds swooped in random gusts, and butterflies, velvet-brown, maroon, and tortoiseshell, their ravishing colors never clashing, never gaudy, moved in the higher strata, like pieces of flying silk.

“

A Triumph

A Triumph

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I’m writing this on the deck, pushing it a little since the thermometer says it’s 44 , but doing it anyway because it’s so gorgeous out here that I don’t want to be inside. 

The grass is bright green and striped with shadows from the still-low sun. The trees have their earliest leaves, tender and golden. 

The azaleas have burst into bloom — the lavender one along the back of the house, the bifurcated pink one beside the trampoline, and the fuchsia one in the middle of the garden — a mistake in terms of landscaping but a triumph from the azalea’s point of view. 

Knowing how rare such moments of perfection are, I plan to sit here a moment, sip my tea and be grateful for every bit of birdsong. 

Just Marveilng

Just Marveilng

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You know the days when they come, days that stand out from others not because they’ve been set aside as holidays but because they have not. They’re naturally delicious from beginning to end with no agenda other than spending time with the people you love. 

I just had one of those days. Apart from an hour or two in the morning when I finished up work tasks from yesterday, there was nothing on the calendar but a quick trip to the store. Otherwise, it was a block of time reserved for hanging out and staying in. 

By 11 a.m. the babies and their mamas arrived to spend time with their aunt and sister.  It was loud and chaotic, with gurgles and shrieks from the infants and laughter and conversation from the adults I still call “the girls.” 

Copper, revved by the unaccustomed activity, patrolled the gathering like a shark in the water, looking for plump infant toes to nibble. We managed to contain him, but barely.

Now it’s evening. The babies are at home in bed, their parents are pooped, and we … are just marveling at it all. 

(“Sock letters” welcoming Celia home.)

Reunions Now

Reunions Now

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I haven’t hugged our youngest daughter since August, when she flew back to Seattle. That’s one Thanksgiving, one Christmas, one Easter, several birthdays (including hers) and one new baby in the family ago. It other words, an eternity. 

As I look forward to our reunion today, I think about others taking place across the country, families and friends long separated by work and pandemic restrictions. 

Just yesterday, dear friends from college texted me a picture of their gathering. Was it my imagination, or were their smiles brighter than they would have been had this not been a post-Covid meeting? Doesn’t everything seem a little more significant now? And if it doesn’t, shouldn’t it?

Exploring Efficiency

Exploring Efficiency

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As the days of full-time employment wind down for me, I’m thinking about efficiency, how it has ruled my life for as long as I can remember. 

Efficiency has always seemed an essential. I don’t know how people tackle life without it. But it has downsides, starting with how it stunts creativity. 

How does the mind roam free when the ticking clock of duties runs persistently in the background? Are there certain places and postures that help to dispel efficiency? Can one simply shut it off once it’s no longer needed, or is one stuck with it?

I will be exploring these questions at length … starting May 1. 

(My old office, where I was usually efficient.) 

Floor Time

Floor Time

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Some people clean house before the maid arrives. I have no maid, but I do, today, have carpet cleaners. For them I’ve not just vacuumed, I’ve lifted, unearthed and rearranged. 

Carpet cleaners, of course, must have access to the floor. And the problem around here is that many other things do, too. There are picture frames and shoes and boxes of files. There are radios and fans and music stands. There are computer cables and lamps that must be unplugged. There are filmy white curtains and floral dust ruffles that must be tucked up and away. Most of all, of course, are the books, which are not just on shelves but also in piles on the floor. 

The good part about all of this began even before the carpet cleaners arrived. That’s all the space that opened up during the preparation. Now … if only we didn’t have to put everything back! 

(Copper posing on one of the carpets that is not being cleaned today.)

Planting Seeds

Planting Seeds

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As the great trees have fallen, the yard has grown brighter, able to support sun-loving plants.  Shade still rules the back of the lot, but it’s a more open place than it was ten years ago. 

Zinnias are old-fashioned flowers that like the sun.  They, like the recently transplanted knock-out rose, are the silver lining in the oaks’ demise. You can sow zinnia seeds directly in the soil when the ground is ready in spring. Which means I ventured out over the weekend, when the garden was moist and tangled in weeds, to start what I hope is a small crop of zinnias. 

Planting, like painting, is mostly about preparation. In this case, the preparation was weeding: ripping wild strawberry and mint from the flower bed; pulling the weed du jour, a tall, gangly stem topped with a baby’s breath-like white flower; and digging up wild onions and dandelions.  

Once I’d made room, I shook the seeds — the chaff, really, because that’s all it seemed — into my palm. How insignificant, barely more than pocket lint or specks of dirt with dust attached. But I spread them evenly and covered them with a light blanket of top soil. 

Surely planting seeds is the ultimate act of faith. If these wee, floaty things produce flowers I will be the most surprised one of all.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Calm Start

Calm Start

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The world outside my office window is brown and green and gray, a palette of soft colors for a foggy morning.

I woke to the sound of an early bird, a cardinal perhaps. But since that first song it’s been still and quiet, a calm start to what I hope is a calm weekend.

It’s time to get caught up on errands both inside and outside the house, time to collect myself before the changes to come.

Redbuds!

Redbuds!

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Every year I obsess over a new type of spring bloom. This year, it’s the redbud tree. I’ve admired them forever, of course. On the long drives to Kentucky I would see wild ones blooming in the mountains, sometimes whole swatches of them coloring the hillsides.

Unlike the delicate cherries of early spring, the redbud is vibrant, bold — an azalea-hued plant that doesn’t wait till late April to show its bright color. 

I’ve photographed several of them lately and covet one for the yard. I have just the spot for it.