Helpers

A rolling vertical pelt of rudbeckia and jewelweed rims the creek’s edge all through the meadow, marking where the mower decided “tamed” should end and “left to its own wild business” continue untouched and unbridled. Everywhere I look is a sea of late summer green dotted generously with yellow blooms that resemble fallen stars (rudbeckia) and tiny delicate princesses’ slippers (jewelweed). Occasionally a surprise cluster of orange jewelweed pushes its golden sisters aside, wedging in to be noticed.

Up until last Friday, I hadn’t walked for five days and was feeling sluggish, pitiful and stale. I don’t lean toward an addictive personality, but if I did, my drug of choice would be these size 6 1/2 feet of mine connecting rhythmically with the soft soil of the paths we keep tending across the land. My raggedy soul is better for it and tells me so in the middle of management meetings when the discussion grows tense yet I remain calm and gentle. Without those daily walks, I fray at the edges and leave a usually-vigilant internal editor in the dust. And while I tried to convince myself I’m sturdy enough to head out no matter what the weather, the heat and humidity of the past week pushed me back indoors where I settled for a slimmed down yoga routine and free weights to at least salve my fitness conscience. The kittens joined in and a good time was had by all.

Now, on a late Friday afternoon, I’m stretched out flat on my stomach with a blanket beneath me in the shade of the Old Man sycamore by the bend in the creek. The fingers of my right hand absentmindedly comb the cool thin grass while my other hand grasps a pen, shaping images into sentences. I’d been up since 7:00a.m. making tray upon tray of granola for Saturday’s market—a job that requires continuous standing, bending, lifting—and for the first time in seven hours, I’m silent and heading toward stillness. I smartly gave myself a five-day weekend with only granola and log-splitting on the agenda. Anything else I accomplish will be born of that luscious mix of creativity and impulse.

It’s a dance, this life of daily labor and leisure (tilted lately a bit more heavily toward labor), balancing relief and tension, reassurance and uncertainty. A dear friend once confided in my that she’s done chasing happy and is instead cultivating contentment. Just the sound of that slowed my heart rate from frantic bird speed to that of a turtle’s (passive research reveals the normal rate to be about twenty-five beats per minute for turtles, compared to 282 beats per minute for a bird. I can relate to both). I want so much to be where she is, and have miles to go.

So, I’m finding small ways to get there, and they seem to be working. Patrick has introduced us both to the art of meditation and I’m embracing it with a peaceful determination. He made himself a string of beads that he fingers steadily in silence, helping him move from anxious to calm, distracted to mindful, restless to languid. I dug through my stash of beads and cording, making myself a couple of strands and now keep one on my nightstand and the other on the end table next to the couch. One’s rather whimsical with fat pink rabbit beads, the other more traditional and understated. I took both down to the meadow with me just because I wanted their company and, during a break in the writing, flipped over on my back, gazed into the Old Man’s canopy of fluttering green leaves and started working my way through the rabbit strand, each bead marking something for which I was grateful. I must have drifted off because I woke up with a slight jerk when the strand dropped from my hands onto the blanket. It was simply glorious, to thank my way into such solace.

Without beads, I know the jewelweed and rudbeckia blooms would get me there just as peacefully. So does each step I take from the back door to the woods, walking sticks in each hand to frame the rhythm of my gait. What a gift, to realize that I’m never separated from what I need to get me where I want to be, that helpers are all around and waiting for me to notice.

All I need is to get out of the kitchen and start walking.

Change of Scenery

With fresh egg salad and lightly-dressed chopped Roma tomatoes in the cooler on ice blocks, Patrick and I pointed the car west and made our way to a lovely public park about an hour from us, stopping at the bank to negotiate a check deposit. It was hot (still…) and the sun wasn’t even trying to hide behind any of the white-topped gray-bottomed clouds that did absolutely nothing in the sky but hang there. We packed our two folding camp chairs, more travel mugs than the car had cupholders for and a couple containers of keto chocolate brownies. A banana went along for the ride, balancing the guilt of the sundaes we’d have later on the way home. Together 29 years and counting, Patrick and I are still dating. How sweet, and encouraging as we look down the road with a view to our twilight years.

It was an off-market day and with batches of granola crisping in the fridge, we gave ourselves permission to not work and just be (a unicorn in our lives if ever there was one), to see what the not-farm world was doing. The park, with its paved walkways, charming footbridges, boardwalks and finely manicured grassy meadows was light on traffic when we arrived. We’d parked in the shade of a perfectly-shaped maple tree and began gathering what we thought we’d need in our pockets as we hiked when we happened to notice a few people standing near the open trunk of their car, helping one of their group attach a long fake fur tail to the black belt around her hips. Her head was wrapped in an open-faced hood sporting what looked like fox ears; she stood steadily on her thigh-high black stiletto boots.

Before we could exchange our silent reactions, two more cars pulled up and discharged their occupants, also costumed, wigged and stilettoed, carrying all manner of “weapons”—swords, bows, shields and flying stars dangling from elaborately decorated belts. Pointy-eared headbands were the norm and one young woman caught my eye with her Hello Kitty backpack. In our khaki cargo shorts and t-shirts, sensible hiking shoes and prescription sunglasses, we were unarmed, not dangerous and clearly underdressed for the occasion that was unfolding before us. “Did we miss a memo somewhere?” An elderly volunteer wearing a shirt with the word “Ranger” across the chest and driving a canopied golf cart pulled along slowly between the rows of parked cars. We flagged him down and our faces asked the question before we could. “They’re here to take photos” was all he’d give us and we were left to our own happy imaginations. Cars and costumed riders kept arriving, putting the finishing touches on their outfits before locking their vehicles and heading over to a sign-in table. We moved among them (masked and safely distanced), still keeping to our own simple agenda and growing more enchanted by the minute.

Ok, so we’re not in our twenties anymore but we do stay fairly current with social norms and trends. Cosplay isn’t outside our realm of understanding. Conversely, we don’t have a separate closet for satiny capes with meticulously stitched-on sequins, tottering platform boots and a dresser full of styrofoam heads to store our many different wigs. In a delightfully unexpected turn of events, our simple picnic in a nearby park became a people-watching event to end all. We hiked a few of the trails and then returned to the car to fetch our lunch, setting up our camp chairs under a stand of cottonwoods across from the parking lot, with a perfect view of the day’s arrivals and departures.

Of course we mused about what goes into such an extracurricular commitment, a hobby with pieces and parts that can’t possibly be comfortable on such a humid late August day. Yet here they were, laughing, posing for cameras (not just iPhones; we’re talking tripods and fancy National Geographic photographer-type equipment; each car seemed to contain someone who filled this job specifically), staying smartly hydrated through it all. The mood was fun, noncompetitive, colorful and we hadn’t paid a dime to be this entertained. Our own hobbies pale in comparison: keeping a modest flock of layers, wood-turning and bookbinding, art quilting and granola-making. None of these needs an audience (customers for the granola, sure, but we tend to give everything else we make away) and I’m not sure we’d be comfortable with folks watching us anyway. Even when we were younger, we were content to quietly go about our creative pursuits and would only elaborate on them if someone asked. The pandemic didn’t invent introverts, I can assure you.

As we finished eating, Patrick mused that we’d planned and packed and traveled 45 miles to do what we could easily have done just a couple of acres from our own front porch. Why? We didn’t know in advance that the destination community park was hosting such eye candy; we just wanted a day spent in each other’s pleasant company, leaving unfinished projects and obligations at home for a while (as guilt-free as is possible for us) and enjoy a slice of life in its own time. Mission accomplished, I’d say, with a huge cherry on top. We meandered our way back home, no hurry to get to those left-behind responsibilities, driving through a few old suburban neighborhoods and making a quick run to the art supplies store for beads and open-stock sheets of crafting paper. We never stopped smiling as we tucked the day’s images safely into our memories, to be pulled out on some nondescript winter day when there’s a break in the conversation.

Our landed home still holds fast to our hearts and we intend for that to continue in perpetuity. It’s also good to step off that familiar common ground to see what other folks do with their lives. Before dinner, we unpacked it all in her presence and it quietly became part of the story we keep living here. She’ll take good care of it long after we’ve forgotten the details.

When Things Change

In what used to be a small open field at the end of our quarter-mile driveway are two natural gas holding tanks and an intricate system of above-ground pipes and other assorted mechanicals caged in a chain link fence. Semis regularly pull up to fill up before heading off to who knows where, their eighteen wheels crunching in the gravel parking pad covering my memory of grass and soil that will never see daylight again. Installed and evolving for going on five years or so, this energy enterprise sort of crept in and settled itself in our peaceful little agrihood, rearranging the landscape in a way we’re not quite used to yet.

I’ve noticed in the past couple of weeks a loud and high-pitched whine coming from the site. It sticks in the air like Velcro, an irritating earworm song that follows me to the farthest corners of our acreage with its relentless and burrowing sound. I can abide the episodic hum of tires in the early morning hours when the neighbors and other good folks are commuting to their respective bill-paying destinations. But this…this is an audible invader threatening all future walks, outdoor gatherings and after-work longings for stillness on the front porch with its alien annoyance. I never took any of that silence for granted and this morning, a heavy heart grieves the loss of it.

In other news, the mower caught fire yesterday (in the driveway, thank goodness, and not out in the field path, far from the fire extinguisher we keep in the shed) and so now one of today’s to-do list items is moving its lifeless hulk onto the half-cut lawn so it will be easier to load and haul off to the repair shop. I was hanging laundry out back when it happened and heard a string of expletives careening around the corner of the house as Patrick sprinted up the slope toward his shed, unable to tell me what was going on no matter how many times I asked him. More gratitude for how organized he keeps his shed, combined with his firefighter training and experience; in seconds the fire is out and the mower is covered in that white foam-turned-powder. It really was too hot to be mowing the lawn anyway.

I realize that in light of current world events and the suffering of others, these are just a couple of disappointing days for us and we’ve already recovered, moved onto other Things. I have no context for what it’s like to live in a place where forty years of war have shaped and filtered my every thought and daily routine, into which children are born and know no other way of living. I’m not one of hundreds in a tight anxious knot on an airport tarmac, pressed against a fence with no hope of boarding any flight out of government-collapse chaos. And no hurricane or tropical storm is bearing down on my impoverished island homeland, flattening the only hospital for over fifty miles and knocking out power, blocking roads with debris toppled by its ferocious winds.

That reframes the burden of a fracking plant’s whine and a temporarily out-of-service lawnmower.

Completely.

It’s not about comparing struggles in some pointless competition to see who has it worse. To borrow a line from Downton Abbey’s housemaid, Anna, “all God’s creatures have their troubles”. And we do. My treasure will always be someone else’s trash, my heavy load someone else’s paradise. It’s more about perspective and recalibrating my present outlook in order to move forward in hope, doing what we can to ease someone else’s heartache. It’s always a risk to push even the whiff of a complaint or concern out there, knowing that there are bigger and more serious matters to contend with. But as I noticed that unending industrial hum for the duration of my morning walk, I registered the moment of realization that something important to me had changed, and all the feelings that accompanied that shift from “what used to be” to “what is”. In both abundance and want, it’s important to be aware of what’s happening and how we’re feeling about it, no matter where we’re standing on this rotating planet. Consider that a permission slip for your own slice of the human experience. Our hearts can hold more than one anguish or joy at a time. Every day’s headlines test the elasticity of our compassion.

Change is hard. It can be exciting, but usually only when we’re the ones initiating it. If it’s imposed upon us or catches us off-guard, that’s an uncomfortable reckoning and we tend to thrash about for a while until acceptance or futility or creativity demand that we choose one of them and get on with it. Where there are additional options laid at my feet, I pray to be awake enough in the moment to see them. I can call the parent company of that fracking plant and let them know about the sound their equipment is making (maybe they don’t know?), politely ask what they can do about it. I can review the warranty on our mower to see if fire damage is covered. I can—and will continue to—pray fiercely for Haiti and Afghanistan and firefighters in California and the people in chairs taking chemo at cancer centers.

As Patrick heads off to the hardware store on a Sunday (a helpful change from the way things used to be a generation or two ago), I’ll content myself with enjoying the feel of the long cool grass on my shins and give thanks for the ratchety mid-August symphony of cicadas moving from one stand of maples to another. Their song is louder than the one at the end of the driveway and my ears shall welcome it until winter swallows them up for another year.

We do what we can with what we have.

For the Record

“Honey, remember when you wanted to be a chimney sweep?”

Patrick burst out laughing before he could put words to his answer. “How long ago was that—fifteen, maybe twenty years?”

“At least that”, I smiled back at him, this man who’s mind is a nearly nonstop churning factory of possibilities.

“How about that time when we wanted to build a curved footbridge over that narrow section of the creek about halfway through the meadow? Hadn’t been here a full eight seasons, didn’t know what a solid weekend of steady downpours could do to that creek…” he had a faraway look in his eyes, his brows raised in gratitude and relief that we never moved forward with that project. In one soggy November weekend, we saw what happens when the skies give the creek more than it can swallow in two days.

This brief exchange took place on Saturday afternoon, another busy morning at the farmers’ market now unpacked and set to rest in the mud room. We’d each settled into our own quiet time (two semi-introverts on full tilt for five hours, engaging happily with a steady stream of pleasantly chatty customers wanting to know all about the granola we make…it says a lot about a relationship when you find your respective corners and sink into that blessed solitude without judgment or pouting). Patrick was on the couch, meditating, and I chose to head into town to browse a favorite shop on it’s annual sale day (I was almost out of elderberry tincture). It’s a plant-based remedies apothecary with additional inventory that’s part global bazaar and part museum of natural history. With wellness and goodwill toward others at the heart of the owners’ intentions, it’s a good place to be reminded of what we humans can manage, given the opportunity and the right herbal blends. Plus, they have a gorgeous selection of handcrafted leather journals. I swear, I was mainly there for the tincture.

But resting flat on a round wooden tiered display stand in the center of the shop was a small journal with the phrase “half-assed ideas” stamped into its stiff leather cover. I chuckled to myself and moved on, making my way to the selection of teas in their tall silver canisters. We have far more tea at home than anyone could ever drink (make note, nieces and nephews—you’ll likely inherit most of it when we pass), but you never know if there’s a new one making its debut. A quick scan of the shelves’ offerings told me we were up to date on our home tea inventory and so I wandered back to the round display stand where that little blank journal blinked back at me, wondering what took me so long on the double-take. I scooped it up, and along with my tincture and a tiny free paper cut-out of a red-capped mushroom, stepped back out in the mid-Ohio sunshine, ready to put my weary bones on the couch next to Patrick for a bit.

As is our custom when either of us returns home from a solitary retail endeavor, we pull each treasure from the bag with a story (or explanation, or defense of spending) and a flourish; exclamations of approval or surprise are expected, or at least appreciated. Given the humble quantity of my purchases, I knew it wouldn’t take long, and the journal was an impulse acquisition. As I reached for it, the inspiration for the explanation came naturally.

“Honey, this is for us to use when we have an idea that needs a little more, um, development, and is too good to just toss into the ether, hoping it will stick to something. Don’t you wish we had one of these back when we first moved here?”

Another burst of pure laughter as we both began thumbing through our collective memories’ pages, landing on those moments that at the time seemed like brilliance but were, in fact, the essence and definition of lunacy. Thankfully, most took place or were discussed without witnesses and could sink back into the obscurity of the drawing board without the embarrassing wince of ridicule. But maybe those ideas were just ahead of their time—shouldn’t we revisit them to make sure we hadn’t overlooked some key variable of genius? It was Patrick who called it: “Let’s start jotting down Past Half-assed Ideas and see where that leads”. The title alone got us giggling and we spent the next hour reminiscing and guffawing, endorphins flowing like that November-flooded creek of years ago. If nothing else, our nieces and nephews would stumble across this collection someday and gain a deeper appreciation of their aunt and uncle’s active inner life, accompanied by a few cups of really old tea…

I know some folks who journal and then shred what they’ve written as a daily ritual. I’m sure such a practice can leave one feeling liberated and clean as a whistle inside. As a writer whose genre leans heavily toward memoir, I save every scrap of sentences that show up inconveniently while I’m behind the wheel or in the post-midnight hour demanding my attention. I sometimes forget which jotter or notebook on which nightstand or end table contained that train of thought that will certainly rocket me into the Memoirist Hall of Fame, but I’ll find it eventually. Having kept journals for the better part of forty years now, I also understand that unless there’s an all-consuming house fire, someone will come across the pages of my most vulnerable moments in life, see exactly what I was thinking at the moment, and where I decided to name names. As I get older, I grow less concerned about what others think of me and my meandering rationales or fleeting perspectives. A random list of half-assed ideas seems a goldmine for future generations to stumble upon after I’m dust.

Too bad I won’t be there to join in their laughter, especially if they find this current work-in-progress inspired by a shop owner’s artistry with leather and an alphabet stamping tool. An impulse buy, perhaps, but one with an infinite return on investment.

(Author’s note: The shop I describe here is Old Mr. Bailiwick’s, located in Mt. Vernon, OH. If you live in Ohio, it’s worth the trip, no matter your starting point. And if you’re not a resident of the Buckeye State, their website is the next best thing, though you’ll miss the charming ambiance of the place. Owners Josh and Becky are filled with talents both hidden and out there for everyone to enjoy, and really know their way around gathering, foraging, decocting, leather stamping and infusing. I hope you’ll find your way here someday and claim a few treasures for your own).