Today, it hailed. Yesterday, it snowed. Incessantly. Burdening fresh daffodils all over town with a cold wet blanket. What a winter epilogue! I was hoping that this week would be a good one to finish sculpting our lot—to finish moving the mountain of dirt in the backyard into the sort of perfect flatness that my husband so admires, so that we can figure out irrigation, and I can begin planting. But the lot is a swamp once more (which makes irrigation seem irrelevant), and it will be another week before it will bear heavy machinery. As the hail splashes on the ground in tight little pellets, I realize it is apt. Pertinent, germane, apposite. It falls uninvited, despite my best wishes and intentions. Here it is, and so am I. I didn‘t plan for it, or orchestrate it. And I certainly can’t prevent it. It just is. Here and doing its hail-ish thing, while I do mine.
Winter dragged, beginning; or In The Midst?
Illustration: untitled by Maurya
It loitered. We thought it would never leave, though we noticed promises of spring weeks ago. “If we still lived in Washington”, I’d grumble to no one in particular, “we’d have seen crocuses a month and a half ago. The daffodils would be up for sure”. But driving around town this last week, I saw daffodils. All at once, all of a sudden! When did they arrive? I didn’t notice their arriving; how did I miss that? They don’t guarantee anything, other than their mother bulbs beneath the ground are happy and ticking. Yet here they are, and I am so happy to see them. [continue reading…]
We look before and after
and pine for what is naught.
Our sincerest laughter
with some pain is fraught.
Our sweetest songs are those
that tell of saddest thought.
–Shelley
Writing, particularly writing a blog that is open to the entire internet, I feel vulnerable. Exposed. I type a word, a sentence, a paragraph, and edit it (deleting everywhere), thinking Goodness Gracious! Let’s not share That. But then I remember beautiful sketches written by people who’ve been willing to stand vulnerable and exposed, and how that moved and changed me. Besides, I tell myself as I start typing again, the world is, as yet, unaware of this quiet slice of life. I have to beg my own family to just glance at excerpts on my web page (even Frank isn’t caught up on my blogs). I don’t need to worry about exposure, not really. So I’ll stand on my little rock and sing on my little stage. Hoping that it’s not just sound (let’s skip the fury). Hoping that it does signify something. [continue reading…]
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the ocean kiss the sea.
What are all these kissings worth
If thou kiss not me?
-Percy B. Shelley
Nora, my youngest (she’s five), was just on my lap. I need to snuggle, she said. Her little body is soft and warm; I don’t mind snuggling at all, though this morning I am feeling antsy, wanting to write. So we snuggled, and talked about Nora things for a while. Eventually I convinced her to go find a toothbrush and toothpaste, and she whined as she went. But I want more snuggling! More and more and more snuggling, trailing out the door. I know what she means.
Here is a picture of my sister Mara Lee with her husband David. I love the tilt of her head, how her hand is curled against his chest. He looks as if he doesn’t mind at all. She said once, “Who wouldn’t want a man who loves Annie’s Song?”. Indeed. Who wouldn’t. I drove for seven and a half hours on Monday to see Mara Lee in Missoula. [continue reading…]
Today, on my brief morning run, the May wind was biting and frigid. I tried to keep my ears covered with the hood of my sweater, but the wind was more clever (or at least more persistent) than I. It looks promising and warm outside now; the sky is relatively cloudless, probably thanks to today’s wind.
I am so ready for sun, and warmth. I have been living for planting time, pushing my feet hard against the floorboards because I can’t reach the accelerator, ever since we moved away from my farm nearly two years ago. Last spring I was managing a muddy construction project, and couldn’t afford to indulge in horticultural fantasies. This spring, settled in the house and eager to garden, I killed most of my penstemon seedlings and nearly all my lady’s mantle in their nursery flats with my impatience.
I have always started my new gardens with seeds. Seeds are amazing, amazing things. [continue reading…]
The end of February— it feels like a time of reckoning.
At last we can see the terrain that lay hidden beneath the snow since November. It is still there. Most of it isn’t pretty, like the sodden tufts of lawn all over town (but not in my mud yard, not yet). The tufts look brown in passing, but when you bend close, you can see the promise of new green, just beneath the ugliness. My wispy baby perennials–the ones I ordered prematurely last March, and didn’t plant in holding beds until just before the first frosts in late September because I was too busy working on the house–are at last exposed. They look bedraggled and perilously devoid of green, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised by winter-worn perennials before. I am hopeful. I need to go out and touch them. Wiggle and flex and pinch stems. Pronounce deaths, congratulate survivors. [continue reading…]
A Memoir (in Miniature) of My Limited Experience Working with Men.
First, at the risk of losing the reader’s interest, I must issue this disclaimer: While the fact that I have worked amongst and even with men is indisputable, I cannot boast Membership in The Men’s Club. Not even as an Honorary Member. Its mysterious inner workings remain, to me, mysterious. This essay simply skirts the masculine puzzle from my feminine point of view. I am not, nor could I ever be, a man. [continue reading…]
This afternoon
I’ll sweep and garnish every room,
Light lamps, smooth pillows–
Wear lipstick and perfume,
Catch smiles in mirrors from my own face–
And when at last you’re home,
Inhale the solid ecstasy of your embrace. [continue reading…]
