Literally. With retching (pardon; tis but too true). Nevertheless and thankfully, the wretchedness was brief; I recovered. A comfort to my children, who were constantly checking on the state of my health while I was sick, asking don’t you feel better yet Mom? Will you feel better by Saturday?
My sister Leah and I like to bounce words around and off each other, a fact I’ve shared on my blog before. In a very literal sense, we are each other’s writing prompts. Which is a good thing, because lately, both of us are hungry and needing to write. Leah has given me permission to share some of her writing attempts on my blog; which writings I will post responses to, which then (we’re hoping) will inspire her to send more. Etc, etc, etc. That’s the plan. I really like it.
Here’s what Leah sent me earlier this week:
“I’ve shared this poem with you so you’ll recognize it. I am not stuck on the title and if you have any editing suggestions I’m very open. I have never gotten the ending to a place I love but for the moment I have no solutions (Lynaea interjecting here: I’m totally ok with the title, and I love the ending):”
For sure. I’ve actually put off garden dreaming a little this year (it’s a silly self defense mechanism, this putting dreams off) and I simply can’t stand it any longer… I lost myself in online catalogs today, and I’m ordering tomorrow. So sometime in April or May, I can have a frantic, joyous two weeks (four weeks? Two months?) of planting. Like I always keep doing. See how forward looking I am? Benefit of gardening, sistah.
Traditionally, late January/early February were my catalog hoarding months. I carried plant catalogs with me everywhere…on garden irrelevant errands, like to the movies (so I had something to do while I waited for the previews), the grocery store—even into the bathtub. I devoured gardening books from the library. Particularly ones with pictures. I drew plans. I started seeds. And then all spring and summer, I planted and weeded and weathered the sometimes heartbreaking learning curve…for blooms. Blooms and fruit and foliage. So worth every obsessed, distressed, and sweaty moment.
St. Patrick’s Day came and went with a quick green nod. Snap, crackle, pop…the end. Over Rover. Which is typically how The Day goes at my house. But. I promise myself that next year I’ll actually look forward to celebrating it, instead of whining about late winter and mud. Because think about it Lynaea…St. Patrick’s Day is a gift, a timely invitation to abandon cold season doldrums to laughter and whimsy. Which invitation I almost missed this year…The day before The Wearing Of The Green, I was suddenly seized with grandiose refashion schemes involving a thrifted skirt and hoarded fabric. Schemes that (if I’d started reasonably early) would have resulted in the most lovely emerald outfit, but (since I didn’t start reasonably early) almost sucked me into a pointless creative OCD vacuum. Luckily, I escaped. Two lovely leprechauns (hello Melody and Marissa) showed up to befriend Maurya and make merry with the rest of us…they helped assemble and eat salads and even washed dishes, and took in (and commented on) countless episodes of “Dr. Who” with us.
Do you grab a book? Turn on a movie? Rummage for chocolate? Me too (though lately, I’m rummaging for pumpkin seeds and raisins instead of chocolate–and my movie collection misses me). I have also learned to look for a Happy Place on little jaunts outside—preferably daily jaunts outside, where I find my favorite comfort vistas. A comfort vista, to me, is way more potent and lasting than comfort food.
We have four sump pumps in our crawlspace because we live in a seasonal swamp, and we don’t want our house to pop up and float away. I’m not entirely sure the sump pumps will keep us from sinking though. We’ve got our fingers crossed on that scenario. Particularly since the seasonal swamp we live in is situated very, very near a fault line.
I say seasonal swamp…tis the season. It is mud time here. Winter is leaving mud in its wake, like it always does as it takes its last bows. I love that spring is in the wings, I do. And there was plenty to love about winter this year…the frost and snow were enchanting, ethereal, inspiring. But I’m feeling just a little conflicted about the mud.
In a bit of a funk and reaching for some way to be happy the other day, my eyes fell on this purplish skirt hanging in my closet. It was like recognizing the face of a friend in a crowd on a lonely day. I eagerly grabbed it. Wearing it, I feel graceful. I feel free. I feel…like sweeping my legs in a battement tendu, or throwing myself into a grande jete. Even though I’m not a dancer, and had no idea, until a moment ago, of what a battement tendu was (thanks Google, and “Ballet for Dummies”). [continue reading…]
EveryDay Bloom: Journal of an Attempt at Creative Living, Dappled & Imperfect. Possibly Ridiculous. 