Everyday Mysteries

There it was, tiny, round and beige, with the characteristic dimpled ridge running from top to bottom—a garbanzo bean on the floor in one of the stalls of the ladies’ room at the downtown office. Impossible to miss on the bare tile during my break.

I have so many questions…

Nothing else at work that week roused my curiosity more than that errant legume, miles from its natural habitat. Even now, on the bus ride home or waiting in line at the library, I still sometimes muse about its journey and how it landed in that spot, given all the other possibilities. And I will probably never know, at least not in this life.

I read somewhere that the human brain is on the receiving end of approximately 30,000 bits of data every day, most of it processed automatically in the course of our routines (the temperature of the water in our morning shower, the aromas of coffee and bacon stirring our tastebuds and how well our shoes fit as we slide into them on the way out the door). But it’s those singular off-script moments or seconds that slow us down long enough to spin our imaginations in all directions. It’s like a continuous creative writing assignment from grade school English class where we’re asked to fill in the back story with our own take on the circumstances until the next round of data comes into our mind’s line of sight. Then we abandon one stream of thought and step into the flow of the next one, looking for clues, drawing conclusions or leaving it unfinished as we try to figure out what’s for dinner.

Call it an active inner life or monkey mind; I’m plagued and privileged in equal measure by it, happy to be led by my curiosity into all realms of my existence. It feels unending up until that sweet moment when I surrender my waking mind into deep sleep where my dreams take over (this is neither the time nor place to get into that). And I wonder why I don’t feel rested in the morning.

Here’s a short list some recent wonderings:

How old are the state office elevator engineer’s work boots? (they are worn in the heels and paint-spattered). Is he planning to get new ones anytime soon?

Who’s hanging by an emotional thread in the room I’m in right now? It’s hard to tell just by the facial expressions around the table. We’re all so good at masking the turbulence that roils deep within or just below the surface.

Where did our resident hummingbirds build their next this year? And why haven’t I ever seen a baby cardinal in my entire lifetime?

Do moles like living underground most of their lives? Through the fur that covers their eyes, what do they see?

When will the horror in Gaza and Ukraine end?

What does it profit someone to gain the whole world but lose their soul along the way?

How did we get here, to this moment in history?

And on it goes, with minimal prompting from everything that exists on the other side of my skin and bones. Science can answer some of those questions, as can simple inquiry on my part of the parties involved (“those work boots look loved. I’ll bet they’ve seen a lot. Does the state help you pay for new ones?”). But I plunge forward into my day, past the hidden secrets of those around me and only in a quiet pause after sunset, hope I’ve shown them grace and kindness. I know…heavy stuff for a Sunday. But there’s this window of headspace while the week’s granola cools on the kitchen counter and of course I’m filling it with the meanderings of a philosophy major some forty years after graduation. I think my dad would be pleased to see how his investment in my education is still unfolding.

In our “figure it out” world that insists on answers instead of more questions, this kind of contemplation seems wasteful and silly. It also draws out our best creative impulses and tendencies where, as we sift through all this rumination, we come across a gem of an idea that just might make things better for someone for a while. My money’s on that outcome and I’m willing to fill the space on bus rides home from downtown or waiting in line for pickles at the farmers market with an entire train of thoughts pointed toward improving the human enterprise even a smidge.

All this from one garbanzo bean in a bathroom stall.

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Tools (Toys)

Resting across the arms of a tall camp chair on the front deck is our new battery-powered weed trimmer, waiting restlessly for me to finish my indoor morning chores and a light breakfast of banana oat pancakes with a handful of fresh tart cherries. A few yards off the porch to the right of the driveway, an unruly stand of pampas grass sneers smugly in my direction, and most of the volunteer maples in the sitting area behind the house look like they’re wearing shaggy green socks. By day’s end, any overgrowth within the arc of those whirring plastic orange strings will look like Mrs. Ferguson’s third grade class on picture day.

On the surface, it is pure folly, how two grown adults would purchase something that weighs only nine pounds, eight ounces, runs on a 30-minute battery pack, and still point it toward 41 acres of nonstop photosynthesis in the hopes of taming even a smidgen of it. But here I stand, gloves and safety glasses securely in place, ready to tackle my white whale which, in this case, is a sea of green ombre so diverse, not even Crayola could pack it in a box. I haven’t been this excited since the summer I built the garden enclosure out of three months’ worth of scrounged pallets while Patrick tended fire at Sundance some 2,000 miles away. If there’s time today, I’ll take the mower for a slow spin through the meadow and walking paths, earning my tuna melt lunch with a deep sense of accomplishment.

All this from our friends at Stihl, bless them.

Patrick is the commander of all things tool-related in our relationship and I’ve never quite connected with the pride he feels upon each new acquisition. They are his progeny, babied like metal orchids, oiled and sharpened and tucked in at night with almost religious devotion. Available attachments (for additional purchase) quickly become necessities and he always offers justification to ease the look of sticker shock on my face. On one mildly unfortunate occasion when I playfully called them “toys”, he let fly a long corrective lecture that ended with the word “tools” expressed in bold font from his lips, underlined and italicized for emphasis. I know how to goad him now with this simple but effective jab and use it judiciously when I’m feeling impish. But the distinction is indelible nonetheless—for him, tools are not toys.

After today’s walking haircut session on the land, however, I shall respectfully disagree. Deep within my soul and psyche is a drive to neaten things up, corral loose ends and leave a place better than I found it. I fold towels with mother-coached precision and purpose (they must all fit in their designated space, no corners or labels dribbling out), put freshly washed dishes in the drainer according to size, shape and weight, shelve books from smallest to tallest and stack fallen sycamore branches only after breaking the longer ones across my knee to make the pile look symmetrical (it will also be easier to gather up and tote out to the wood stacks at the sweat lodge, also arranged by size and length). Anything that gets me to “there, that’s much better” easily is nothing short of pure fun and I shall laugh out loud using it. Prior to our new weed whip purchase, I tackled the land-tending chores of trimming and tidying up with a cobbled-together collection of whatever would get the job done in the moment—loppers better suited for shrubs and trees (don’t tell Patrick, but I used them for cutting back the stringy tough stems of ironweed and sumac and thick bunches of knotgrass), hand pruners and once, a vintage scythe scored at a farm auction. I trudged back to the house knowing that things out there looked a little better but longed for an easier path to that feeling. The tools Patrick uses are beyond my reach, literally. They’re heavy to lift and even harder to wield in any sort of effective rhythmic motion. When he pulls the rip cord to fire them up, his face is all business and it’s clear he’s about do engage in some Serious Work.

My approach is more Zen-like as I meditate my way through a patch of thistle, smiling and thanking the fallen stalks for understanding that our tomatoes deserve a chance to contribute to our grocery budget come August. I can’t count the hours I’ve spent on my knees hand-pulling weeds from the tight-fisted clay soil, knowing that down in the barn was a monster apparatus that would have laid it all to rest in less than 15 minutes and loosened the ground with its rotating sharp teeth. If only I could pick it up…

Today will be sheer joy as I press the starter bar and squeeze the two triggers that will set the whole 9-lb, 8-ounce baby in motion. No pull cord, no gas-oil mix to measure and pour into a tiny engine reservoir. Easy to hoist and ergonomically compatible with my small frame and limited upper body strength, I will lay down the Virginia creeper currently climbing up the ankles and shins of our volunteer box elders, clear the way for a future planting of cosmos and coreopsis beneath the studio windows and flatten the smirk right off that stand of pampas grass. This Stihl trimmer is indeed a toy that will deliver outdoor joy for many summers to come.

I’ll let you know if I can skip merrily along while using it.

It's Not the Heat, It's the Humility

Our cool and pleasant spring just took a sharp hairpin turn into a week of heat dome 90-degree blast furnace temps and so naturally, we’re heading out later this afternoon to refill the propane tank for the grill. The mulberry saplings just off the porch are showing us mercy as they stretch their long branches over the deck and give us early afternoon shade that doesn’t quit until the following day’s lunchtime. One of our nephews is here trimming the driveway and will soon help me install the window A/C unit in the living room (I managed that last year by myself and we turned it on once). All that, and trying not to move around so much, should get us through the week.

When it gets like this, my early morning walks are a gauntlet-running adventure. Our patient and ever-hungry field spiders and orb spinners work overtime overnight to stretch their invisible gossamer nets across the paths and I barge into them full-face, blinking their sticky silken strands across my eyelashes as I call out apologies over my shoulder for wrecking their functional artwork. Every mosquito and biting fly within a 50-mile radius clears its agenda to find any exposed bit of my skin even though I’ve doused myself in all varieties of insect repellant I found in the bathroom medicine cabinet. I trudge forward, a well-marinated bug snack on two legs, windmilling my arms to distract them before they find my ears and forehead again. The air is thick with humidity and darn near sliceable. There’s not much point to hanging a load of laundry on the line—it will remain damp for days and still smell sour from perspiration and the minerals in our well water. Yesterday I got the standing floor fans out of the attic, washed the dust from the blades and set them up in the living room and upstairs bedroom. We’ll go as long as we can without turning them on.

While it’s usually five to ten degrees cooler on the land (compared to the heat-soaked concrete and asphalt of the city just a short bus trip away), the heat still tugs at our limbs and slows us down, settling us into the deck chairs or onto the grassy shaded slope at the mouth of the meadow to rest for a spell after letting the chickens out for the day. I’m tempted to shave the cats but they haven’t asked for that yet. They lie flat on the deck at our feet, lapping occasionally from the bowls of water I’ve placed nearby. No one seems hungry (except those field spiders). We just want to be still as we contemplate our place in the universe. I long for the goosebumps of February.

And it’s only June.

Every season can bring you to your knees, call you to accept what you can’t control and prod you to move your way through the challenges of ice and straight-line winds and flooding creeks that swallow up your rows of cabbage and chard. I’m not sure we understood that when we unpacked all of our things and set up house and land-keeping here twenty-five years ago. We came with a thick filter of romantic naivete and innocent respect for the wildness that surrounded us. Over time, we’ve come to listen more deeply to what the acres of old cornfields really want (to become wooded and brambly again), pay close attention as the land’s next chapter mingles with ours and try our best to stay out of her way, keeping our footprints light and loving. Life forms much smaller than we are humble us daily as we press our weight into their worlds on the way to our cars or when we’re kneeling to weed the garden. Their retaliatory bites and stings seem a small burden to bear when we consider the impact of our presence among them. Some mornings I don’t walk just so the spiders can have a shot at a decent breakfast. I’ll find some other less invasive way to pray my day into existence.

Though I don’t scroll the weather apps as much anymore, I suspect this stretch of heat and humidity will pass and we’ll find ourselves hauling out the sweaters and boots again, keeping a watchful eye on the creek during the rainy weeks of early autumn. The cats will tuck in close as the air chills and we’ll eat more soup, letting the oven warm the kitchen while it bakes our homegrown potatoes to fluffy perfection.

Until then, I’ll remind myself that humidity is good for the skin and welcome the nudge to move more slowly through whatever remains of my summer life.

The Rich and Storied Life of Things

In the summer of ‘88, I bought a jute hammock at an open market in Managua, Nicaragua. At the time, my west side apartment back in the states offered no perfectly spaced trees from which to hang it (and the neighborhood was dicey; I wouldn’t have felt safe to recline al fresco as I watched the local youth put their cigarettes out on the hood of my new Honda Civic). I packed it carefully in my carryon bag and unpacked it when I got home, tucking it away for Later.

(Note: In addition to the hammock, I brought back two bottles of rum purchased at the duty-free shop in the Managua airport terminal. What else should a 25-year-old daughter bring back for her parents who slept not at all during the two weeks I spent documenting the war between the Contras and the Sandinistas? I can happily say those two bottles are tiny specks in the frame of my life’s rearview mirror, their contents drained shortly after I handed them over. I also bought my mom a rosary. Prayer takes many forms).

Thirty-six years Later (last week, to be precise), I added it to the growing pile of items both cherished and forgotten, all on their way to the local Goodwill up the road for the next leg of their journey. It never knew the strong and secure grasp of a tree’s trunk nor the weight of my relaxed body swaying gently in a hypnotic summer afternoon rhythm. I thought I’d wince more than I did, handing it over to whatever new owner might claim it as treasure from the crowded shelves of the thrift store. They’ll have no idea where it came from, how old it is or what I was feeling when I pulled out a fistful of cordobas for the vendor to make it mine. Since 1988, it has moved with me to four apartments and two homes, perhaps sharing my dream that someday, it would be useful as the maker intended. I have unfolded it and stretched it out, even took it on a few walks with me to find those perfectly spaced trees from which to hang it, but they never revealed themselves. It was time to honor its purpose by moving it along. I have no regrets. My time in Nicaragua was a life-changing event that no hammock could hold.

In the coming year, we’ll be moving our upstairs sleeping arrangement down a flight, swapping places with the guestroom-slash-studio that is in SERIOUS need of purging. That is my task for the months ahead and I’m pleased to say I can now see the walls in two of the room’s four corners. Out the front door went a quilt frame from the ‘40s in its original box, never opened and employed, along with a pair of retractable shower curtain rods, rolls of fusible stiffened batting and bubble wrap style insulation (I was planning to make lunch bags), several unfinished quilt tops and bags of vintage handkerchiefs (given to two dear friends whose sewing machines never get dusty), science and psychology books from the ‘70s that graced the shelves in my dad’s den, over thirty antique promotional yardsticks from various local businesses, and miscellaneous bits of craft supplies. I hung onto my mom’s portable sewing machine in its heavy black carrying case and my dad’s Smith Corona manual typewriter (robin’s egg blue). I’ll tackle the shallow totes under the bed and finally frame the abstract spatter-painted piece of thick posterboard I made in a summer school art class between 4th and 5th grades. I don’t want to live in a museum or a storage unit, buried among the detritus of the ages. If it resides in our home, it will be useful and enjoy a life of purpose until the end (and yes, works of art count as useful, soothing our news-weary souls on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis).

Driving through our agrihood over the Memorial Day weekend, we noticed there were fewer garage and yard sale signs than we’ve seen in previous years. I wonder if the pandemic motivated folks to downsize and now there’s not as much to sell. I remember in our antiquing days when the thrill of the hunt pulled us out of the truck cab to inspect a curbside pile of wood or forlorn furniture and some wire storage racks. Much of what we found we sold or put to use—the wooden platform bench that now sits beneath the stand of young mulberries off the front porch with a grand view of the meadow, the trash-picked and still sturdy pine green wicker loveseat disappearing into a brambly alcove just off the walking path near the creek and half a dozen shepherd’s hooks from which dangle the bird feeder circus on the ridge. I’m inspired right in this moment to paint the hummingbird and dragonfly that adorn one of them, adding pops of color that will make us happy on some gray and chilly February day.

I don’t need to ask how two people could accumulate so much after 30+ years together; I was there for every purchase and acquisition and the stories are part of my DNA. I think that’s what makes the inevitable letting go of our things so liberating and joyous. In my passionate and determined downsizing these past several weeks, I’ve set aside certain treasures to pass along to cherished friends and people I know will appreciate the story that brought them to us both. Given with no strings attached, these bits and pieces from my life will keep changing hands and I like the thought of that. I get to keep my memories; someone else gets to add theirs to whatever catches their eye on the thrift store’s shelf. Anything covered in a layer of dust, thick or thin, has its days with us numbered.

What remains within our walls will matter to us until it doesn’t and we’ll start the whole process over again, sifting and sorting, remembering and sitting still for a moment until it’s time to pack something into a bag and head out the door with it to its new pride of place for stranger or friend.

In the meantime, if you need some widget or gizmo, you might wanna check with us first. Chances are, we’ve got what you’re looking for.