Gentle Landings

It’s as if the leaves on the towering yellow maple just outside the kitchen window fell in one unified and agreed-upon drop, finally unable to hang above the dried grass a moment longer. Every blade was covered in ombreic shades of gold and maize and pale butter, the sharp-edged leaves flattened down by a steady rain that started falling an hour after we pulled up the driveway in the first new and dark minutes of Saturday morning. However it happened, it looked soft and bed-like and almost inviting.

Filling a tall glass with water, I stood at the sink shortly after 7:30am with a ten-plus hour road trip hangover (you know what I mean—still slightly dehydrated, knee and elbow joints stiff from the bucket seat sitting position, regretting the Taco Bell dinner choice at 9:30pm), having spent five of those hours inching our way through Chicago’s Friday night gridlock. The yellow of the leaves soothed my travel-weary spirit, and I lingered a bit longer than necessary over the dishes Patrick must have used for his post-trip before-bed snack. By my reckoning, he could eat whatever he wanted at any time of day or night from this day forward, after such patient obedience to the GPS that guided us along Lakeshore Drive, an alternate route to avoid an accident on 94. It added two hours to what was normally a seven-hour trip (not counting bathroom breaks and Taco Bell stops). Much as we both enjoy our time in the Big Blue truck feeling the miles disappear beneath its tires, this thirty-hour round-trip jaunt to the Windy City was brutal. As I write this, I’m not even sure I want to make the 18-mile commute to work tomorrow morning.

But there there…we’re home now, and it’s taken us the better part of two days to find our stillness groove again. Coming home to a clean kitchen was intentional and arranged. I knew I’d want my eyes to rest on an empty sink and a full dish drainer as soon as we walked through the front door. The view of the yellow maple carpet outside the kitchen window was pure bonus, a lottery ticket found in a forgotten winter coat pocket, cashed in and spent on something impulsive and frivolous.

It never gets old, living here.

While Patrick reacquainted himself with his workshop out back late in the afternoon, I made a batch of oatmeal raisin chocolate chip cookies (he’s been asking me for years—they’re his favorite), filling the house with their buttery baked breath, and had three of them before dinner. To atone for our food choices on the road, we sank into the couch around 9:00pm, each of us holding a bowl of savory quinoa topped with steamed and sautéed vegetables, tahini, soy sauce, slivered almonds and only a mention of shredded cheese. That would cancel out any damage done by the pre-dinner cookie indulgence, I told myself. And I was right.

By grace and by gift, I am able to look back on myriad homecomings, some following the most joyous of events and others, broken-hearted and tear-stained circumstances beyond my influence. The common ground among them all is the welcome that only a familiar home can offer— nubby upholstered chairs that have followed me through the decades from apartments to houses, plush throws draped across the arm of the couch, and framed photos of family and watercolors right where we left them. We exhale into their “come and sit down” presence, leaving the unpacking for a few minutes as we untie our shoes and peel off the socks that have left their knitted imprint on our ankles. We walk from the living room to the bathroom, putting away toiletries and giving the mail on the coffee table a quick glance and a promise. It feels good to be stretched out to full height and moving without really going too far, and the cats are glad to see us (no opposable thumbs to open the food bin and scoop out a measure into their bowls, they’ve looked forward to this moment since our niece Andi last filled them around 3:00). In these first few moments, it’s easy to wonder why we left in the first place.

A full week ahead begins to play itself out in our minds, and we set about slowly acknowledging what we need to do to prepare for it, lest it rush forward and devour all of our residual energy. There’s a new appliance addition to the family—a shiny washing machine, delivered this morning, waiting to chew on our clothes for a while before spinning them damp-dry and spitting them out cleaner than when they went in, and I’m eager to empty the hamper into its silver-ringed maw. But for now, I’m content to look out the living room windows at the sun-dappled maple leaves, turned brown and dried by this morning’s gusty winds, as Patrick naps by my side on the couch.

Home. It’s almost like we never left.

In Praise of the Ordinary.

Bits of dried Montmorency cherries stick to the kitchen shears in my right hand as I snip about half a cup into smaller pieces for the batch of mocha cherry almond granola that’s baking at a warm 325 degrees. My fingers are sticky and I resist the temptation to lick them clean (this batch of granola is for sale. Mustn’t put the customers off). We’re in between summer and winter farmers’ markets, with a two-week break, and it’s always good to stay ahead on inventory. Because we make flavors in small batches, certain ones sell out quickly, almost guaranteeing that we won’t have every flavor available all the time. But if a customer asks, we’ll make what she wants, sell her a bag or two and tuck the rest away for the next Saturday’s offerings. So far, it’s a system that works without taxing the kitchen staff.

I started and ended my day baking, filling the space in between with roasting the last of the summer squash and then cleaning the bathroom before heading over to our friends’ place an hour away for a scrumptious sliders sammich bar and belated birthday celebrations with their two young girls. Time spent with them is always—always—good, and the sunny autumn day enveloping us made it that much better. We cooked together, romped in their back yard with the two “loaner” dogs they were watching for some friends, and watched the “Pastry Week” episode of The Great British Baking Show until Jen pushed the pause button to serve up spiced crunch-top apple cake with her homemade caramel sauce, alongside Claire’s first batch of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies (that are also excellent with a spoonful of that same caramel sauce). Yes, I realize I’m writing a lot about food at the moment. My apologies to the keto folks in the reading audience or anyone just starting the Atkins plan. I can move the reflection in a more low-carb, low-cal direction.

On our way home, I felt that familiar hunger for putting my feet on the field paths while the sun was still two hands above the horizon line. It didn’t take long to unpack the car, put away the leftovers Jen and Russell sent home with us, change into my chicken boots and head down the slope from the front deck into the mouth of the meadow. The kittens bounced along behind me for a few yards before racing ahead to find adventures of their own along the creek banks. They’d disappear and reappear at semi-regular intervals, and follow the sound of my voice if we lost sight if each other. They’re dear little fur balls and sturdy walking companions.

As we crunched along through the brown and curled sycamore leaves, I couldn’t get over how simple and plain this day felt. No emotional peaks and valleys, nor physical ones from some long overdue farm chore. Just granola, sliders and TV with people we love, a sunset walk beneath reliable blue skies and trees, and more granola. Steady, I think to myself. Some would say average or ordinary, and I’d be ok with that too. It’s these calmer days that I sometimes forget to appreciate or even notice, surrounded as we are by the language of the superlative experience. Headlines lure us in with “stunning”, “jaw-dropping”, and the overused “amazing”, and all I learn when I read further is that some folks get there much sooner than I would have. The unremarkable goes, well, unremarked.

But it’s so essential, my friends, to set that bar at a height that we can scale without injury—physical, emotional, or spiritual. When we expect a home run nearly every time we’re at the plate, we lose an appreciation for a well-executed single that keeps the inning going. Don’t worry—the no-hitters and grand slams come along too and it’s thrilling when we’re there to gather those moments into our open and awestruck mouths. Let’s just remember to make room for the common, the steady, the normal inhaling and exhaling rhythms that give us a solid place to land, and a grounding from which to stretch and reach beyond once in a while.

Here’s to granola and friends and borrowed dogs and nothing too flashy.

Sleep well, dear ones.

Gift of the Night

It’s Sunday, 4:00a.m., and a just-barely nearly-there almost-full moon is making the condensation on the bedroom window glint and sparkle. In its dazzling white light, every tree limb and curled up leaf, the long old goat barn, the Tacoma, and the birdhouses Patrick made out of dried gourds hanging from the mulberry’s branches in complete stillness are aglow in silver. I only woke up to go to the bathroom. That’ll have to wait, since I can’t pull my gaze away from this not-to-be-repeated-ever-in-my-life scene unfolding in slow motion just on the other side of the glass window pane. I’m in a place that knows magic and how to display it. Best not to turn my back on such cosmic generosity.

A rough go at the math adds up to nearly 240 full moons in our twenty years here, and I may just do the deeper calculations and research to discover how many of them were shrouded in clouds. This is Ohio after all, and we average 178 sunny days a year. An unobstructed full moon sighting is something to stand still and enjoy for a while. What a gift.

One of those 240 moons rose on the heels of a wild and spectacular thunderstorm one day in late June several years ago that used every dramatic visual effect in its prize closet—straight line winds and soaking rains and hail and staccato lightning—all crashing into one another and threatening to envelop us forever until it all just…stopped. Enough lingering drops of rain and the sun pushing back the last long edge of the spent storm clouds combined to shoot a full end-to-end rainbow across the field to the east. The swollen moon eased itself up and just under the apex of the arc’s blurry violet band and hung there as the drenched grass below reinvented the color green. Even if I’d had the presence of mind to start howling, I’m not sure I’d have been able to. I simply thanked the timing of my day’s agenda that landed me in that sacred spot at that particular moment and held me fast to the ground. I won’t forget this. Thank you. Thank you.

Another full moon memory happened in the fresh new minutes of a snowy January 1st back in 2001. Patrick and I had kissed the new year into place well before midnight because it had been a full day’s work on the farm and neither of us expected to be awake when the ball dropped in Times Square. It seemed celebratory nonetheless, if not a tad unromantically efficient. We fired up the space heater in the bedroom and fell asleep in its warmth.

But darn it if I didn’t wake to the gentle and persistent nudge of nature’s call, and there was the moon, out from behind its winter cloud cover, the snow giving back its light so brightly I could see the soft outlines of rabbit tracks from the second floor window. I was bone-tired, but the whole scene beckoned convincingly; in less than fifteen minutes I was layered up and out the mudroom door, walking the seventeen acres to the woods, then back through the meadow and down the full length of the driveway, crossing the icy creek twice as the moonlight threw the crisscrossed shadows of bare tree branches at my feet. I didn’t remove any of my layers until I was back in the bedroom waking Patrick to see if he wanted to join me for a second lap around the field. He mumbled something incoherent yet unmistakably disagreeable, and so I decided not to be greedy, hung up my coat and mittens and crawled back into bed, still content and happy for such a breathtaking start to the new year.

Forgive me if I sound selfish or ungrateful in the face of tonight’s full moon (which I just watched come up behind the lacey silhouettes of the sycamores that mark the easternmost edge of our field), but its brilliant white glow will drown out the tail end of the Draconids meteor shower, one I’ve yet to experience here. I shall, of course, hold onto the hope that November’s Leonids will be accessible to us, and we’ll get a chance to repeat our 3:00a.m. sweat lodge circle camp out, complete with arctic-rated sleeping bags, ground tarps and pillows. But if that doesn’t happen, I’ll at least revisit that reel in my heart’s Most Cherished archive, and bring it fondly forward until the next full moon shows its sunlit face.

Until then, I’ll have one more cup of tea and drift off until that old reliable internal 4:00a.m. wake-up call.

Owwoooooooooooo!

The Young Ones

Our niece and nephews just left. I can hear the crunch of the driveway gravel beneath their tires, a slow lingering don’t-want-to-leave sort of crunch, and it makes me smile. To have the privilege of a front row seat at their unfolding from infancy into young adulthood is the closest I’ll come to children of my own. It was Becca’s idea and invitation to see the new Downton Abbey film as a birthday present (she and I happily share the day, a gift from her late mother and my dear friend. See previous post “For Jeannie”, April 1, 2018), an easy “yes” in my decision options that day. Then pizzas-to-go back at the house where we filled the air between us with catch-up talk, giggling, much opening of gifts, and some spontaneous rapping of the Hamilton score. Who wouldn’t drive away slowly and reluctantly from a gathering like that?

Every visit with Andrew, his husband Akira, Anthony (visiting from Chicago!) and Becca is like this, with slight changes to the agenda. Becca’s friend Corey was here too—a most welcome and joyful spirit under our roof. We spent our time together awake and grateful, fully present and moving from one laugh to another. The time passes easily and we’re all better for it. I miss their mother and feel her with us all in one. What fine people these young people have become.

When Jeannie was simplifying her life as her treatments continued, she bravely asked if we would take in Copper, the family cat, all black and in search of yet another lap to call home. Copper’s age was and still is an estimate—at least 13, but maybe 19–a sturdy feline with no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. We all gave it a trial month, and in that time, Copper Raised in the Suburb slowly transformed into Copper the Rural Mouser, and we blended our lives into a seamless respectful existence. When the children-turned-young adults come to visit, it’s a beautiful reunion to behold, as if Copper was now somehow Jeannie’s avatar (Copper does help me with my morning yoga practice, something Jeannie would certainly do if she were here). She recognizes them instantly, and the months since that last visit melt away.

I must say, I wondered how our relationships with these precious young ones would evolve after Jeannie died. It was a delicate dance that balanced respectful distance and space with gentle knocking on the doors of grief, just to see if anyone needed a drink or a memory spoken aloud. I felt young and child-like helpless for a time after my own mom passed, but I was twice Becca’s age when that happened. I can only imagine how I might have navigated my 30’s without my parents nearby. Becca and her brothers are walking that path every day. I would expect some days or moments are easier than others, as evidenced by the way they all carry themselves. I am grateful for the honest presentations of their hearts and remind myself that’s not just a condition of their youth. It’s an invitation to re-set my own inner posture and remove the walls that keep me too much in my own world. Yet another reason to cherish the time we spend in each other’s company.

A few minutes after their car turned onto the road, where the gravel ends and the blacktop begins, I’m pulling the trash bin to the curb and unloading a week’s worth into its thick plastic mouth. The rough cardboard edges of the pizza boxes push against the dark green plastic of the trash bag in my hand, and I smile again, the echoes of that slow and reluctant driveway gravel crunch fading in my ears.