Busy Signal

Why do the multiflora roses have to smell so heavenly? Pruners in hand, the morning walks have become a conflicted trespass of beauty mingled with unfortunate purpose as I try to ease the thorny burden on our newest maple, shagbark hickory and oak saplings. I’ve heard the laughter of brambles before—a deep and derisive shrillness—and still I trudge on with my agenda amidst the echoes of futility. Perhaps, akin to the starfish on the beach story, it matters to this one (tiny red maple, brave little oak, innocent shagbark hickory).

Please forgive the gap in reflections (has it really been two months since I put my fingers to the keyboard?); I’ve been outside on my knees in the garden, mulching, hilling up the potatoes, running my fingers through the tender leaves of this year’s first radish crop (five varieties!) and slowly shrinking the pile of wood chips that our nieces hauled and offloaded next to the raised beds, spreading it on the narrow paths that wind their way through our future groceries. I have plans for refinements to the whole enterprise—reinforcing the south side of the bean and vining tomato trellises with welded wire fencing, filling in the trenches that Patrick dug for potatoes and closing off that area with the remaining wood pallets currently leaning up against one of the more established mulberry trees. It’s good and honest work that will probably take the better part of a morning and I’m up for it, thanks to a good massage therapist and a most pleasant bathtub that makes me forget those knots in my shoulders.

A while back, I mused about tending to living things as a remedy for the frightening State of Affairs that currently engulfs us all and it’s working, like a couple of Tylenol taking the edge off a pounding headache. A church up the road is holding its annual “yard giveaway”, accepting donations of anything and everything that folks can pick through at their leisure on a sunny Saturday. Our barn will gladly give up its detritus to this cause, finding new homes for three antique school desks, half a dozen wicker lawn chairs, a woodchipper in need of a carburetor, a white farmhouse table and miscellaneous light fixtures. I fully expect to hear the whole structure exhale as it watches the truck disappear down the driveway, it’s tottering pile of memories wobbling precariously over the ruts and potholes left by the last round of soaking rains. We’ll stop for ice cream on the way back home, sitting on the tailgate like a couple of dating teenagers.

We’ve been busy since we arrived here twenty-six years ago and for as long as the land keeps asking for our time and muscle and effort, we’ll gladly oblige. What the seasons give us is more than ample compensation; it is, in fact, a sacred contract of trust and good medicine in both directions. For the next three months, the trees on the ridge will wrap their leafy arms around us protectively as our flock of orioles, in their smart orange and black tuxedos, play hide-and-seek between sips at the jelly juice feeders. We need only sit on the couch and be delighted; they ask nothing else from us. A mama raccoon tidies up the area below the seed feeders around 6:30pm each evening and we expect to see her young-uns in tow before too long. If you’ve not had the opportunity to observe any animal showing its offspring how to survive, you’re in for a treat and may never watch TV again. Living things saving us from ourselves once more.

In a couple hours, I’ll walk down the driveway to trim back the honeysuckles that want so badly to scratch the sides of our cars and have the weed whip in the other hand to lay down the hip-high saw grass and bedstraw threatening to tunnel us in forever. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of the stunning pileated woodpecker who frequents the grove of buckeyes that hug the creek banks and he’ll let me just gaze upon him in awe and appreciation. I don’t want to be greedy (feeling small as I stand beneath towering cottonwoods is enough, truly) but it’s no crime to hope, is it? In three weeks, the branches of nearly all our mulberries will be loaded with fruit and we’ll shake them loose onto a sheet spread out on the grass below while one of us tries to remember that recipe for mulberry barbeque sauce our niece gave us five years ago.

It’s my best intention to sit here on the couch a week from now and unspool another collection of thoughts but if that doesn’t happen, at least you’ll know what I’m up to.

The Heart of the People

Halfway through the morning walk, just past the Hill to the west, it started to rain. No leaves yet on the black walnuts, sycamores and red maples filling in where the corn used to be two-plus decades ago, so the branches and buds catch the drops with soft tapping sounds. In just ten yards, I’ll turn the corner into the mouth of a secondary path Patrick cut a few years back and I’ll hear the gentle downpour fading behind me until I get to the woods.

This place knows magic, every day.

There are few things more soothing than walking in intermittent spring showers, unless it’s being tucked in on the couch afterwards with the morning oats (blackberries, blueberries, maple syrup and honest-to-goodness butter that’s white, not yellow), writing about them. I’ve not been sleeping well, nerves rubbed raw with uncertainty and each hour’s headlines worse than the ones before. Didn’t I just share two weeks ago about the hope of tending to life and growing things? Where’d all that go? The garden’s coming along, as gardens do with proper love and attention, and we hope to be eating radishes in our salads soon, but the rest of it seems to have evaporated, retreated into the temporary protection of the heart’s warren, where all smart rabbits hide when the hawk’s shadow darkens and blots out the sun. I’m safe and dry for now, in the company of a few others who, like me, need a break from the onslaught of hopelessness and fear. We’ll emerge in a bit to take up the mantle of love and justice again but give us a minute to catch our breath (I have plans to clear out what’s underneath the bed later today, just to have another place to go if I need it). In the meantime, I sink into the rain as it washes away the worry. A little.

Out running errands yesterday afternoon following a flurry of final tax preparation, Patrick and I drove through a packed demonstration on the street where a Tesla dealership stands. Pro-democracy supporters were six rows deep and around the block, numbering over 500; a small group of their pro-fascist counterparts sprinkled in here and there, flashing middle fingers and shouting insults across the two-lane road that divided the crowds (physically, for a start). No violence beyond the anger in the faces of those on both sides whose fears lurked just below the surface. I noticed one calm gentleman holding his hand over his heart, nodding with his eyes closed. It was warm and breezy, flags of all sorts snapping and unfurling over the heads of everyone standing up for what they believe. I honked loud and long as we circled the block and 500+ people cheered their thanks.

I don’t ask how we got here anymore and it’s neither helpful nor therapeutic to keep asking. The more urgent question is “where are we going?” If I let fear alone answer that one, I’ll be under the bed more often. Most days, though, I’m not that short-sighted, and thank the Maker for that. The rhythm of life, for me and maybe Patrick, at least, is a back-and-forth motion between unsettled and determined, with the land wrapping us in rain-washed comfort and wisdom round the clock. The last two weeks have leaned more heavily toward the “unsettled” side of things. Morning walks, work and studio art projects distract and soften the rough edges for a few blessed moments. It’s the nights that take me down, hard sometimes, as my thoughts are left to spool unchecked and unhopeful. Sunrises have been harder to believe in lately.

Sometimes I imagine an actual conversation between me and someone whose views and convictions are completely on the other side of my own. Is such an encounter even possible? I find that generous portion of my heart that wants to really listen, not just react, and I wonder where we’d land in those pockets of silence that pepper all challenging discussions. I’d like to think I’m compassionately curious about what goes on behind the clever slogans and yard signs, in the privacy of one’s own living room. Is there any common ground among humanity anymore? Anything we can agree on and somehow move a foot (heck, a toe) forward together? It wasn’t evident on the street yesterday, far as I could see, but we didn’t stay long enough to find out. Looks like I’ll need to go back and try again. Maybe.

My late mother-in-law often shared this insightful nugget in times of trouble and doubt: “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift—that’s why it’s called ‘the present’”. At 2:30 this morning, it struck me that the current Situation pushes me to stop and live in the gift of whatever my present moment is, until the next one comes around, and the next…and the next. Now I’m four minutes into a future that looked bleak an hour ago and I’m still here, still married to the man of my dreams and still determined, if only even a little bit, to do what I can to help push that bleakness back a few yards. Is that enough? Not against the backdrop of a future built by my—and our—worst nightmares, it isn’t, but…on the bus with strangers, heading downtown to work? Ok, sure. Or thanking the man in the MAGA hat who just held the door for me at Kroger? Um, yeah. Teachable moments are surprisingly everywhere and most don’t involve a monologue to a captive audience. I rub my forehead, a little confused by the grayness of it all when my heart—and maybe the hearts of others—wants black-and-white, linear and clear assessments and solutions. Communities are messy and evolving, our fellow humans in a continuous state of growth and awakening (darn it all, on myriad different time frames and schedules, too) and yes, intransigence. Patience is required while we’re also painting slogans on the signs and banners we’ll wave in the streets. The good work of love and justice must continue.

All I know is that I want peace. And I can’t be alone in that. I’ll do what I can, as best I can, one moment to the next.

Join me.

She's Here!

Spring has arrived on our doorstep, her suitcases bulging with 70-degree days, the faint shrill of tiny peepers in the swampy depressions of the woods, steady soothing rains and the occasional thunderstorm with its strobe light lightning. Bonus this past week was a total lunar eclipse that generously shared the night sky with an applause-worthy meteor shower (those middle if the night trips to the bathroom downstairs do have their merits). Yesterday, I saw a house sparrow tugging at a piece of straw five times her length, trying to get airborne with it to build the base of her summer home. I offered to break it into smaller pieces for her but she declined. The first shoots of our beloved snowdrops and crocuses are bravely above ground, unaware that the weather-guessers are predicting a few more hard frosts before we can comfortably trudge outside barefooted and unfettered. I’m not worried. They know what they’re doing (the snowdrops, not the weather-guessers).

In a burst of “it’s almost-spring” antsy-pants-ness, I cleared the remaining dead stalks and last year’s tomato vines from the raised beds before continuing down the path to the woods, imagining the all-blue and red Pontiac potatoes we’d plant later this week along with radishes, chard, kale and spinach that will fill our salad bowls until the lettuces start sprouting. The garlic we nestled in the ground last October got the party started a couple weeks ago, along with a narrow bed dedicated entirely to my grandfather’s tulips from the Netherlands. In the far end of our overlarge and warm bathroom, we’ll start the tomatoes, cabbage, seashell cosmos, snap peas, dragon’s tongue beans and some Mexican sour gherkins that will be no bigger than my thumb when we harvest them. Oh, and bell peppers in all colors—green, yellow, red, orange and purple (do I have to go to work tomorrow?).

I am overly ready for the season of laundry on the line, hearing aids on the morning walks to catch every bird call and deer snort, turning compost by the shovelful, sitting atop the zero-turn mower for those luscious six-hour stretches of meditative grass cutting and eating sun-warmed pink bumblebee cherry tomatoes right off the vine. The weeds will bring us to our knees, we’ll give mammoth sunflowers a try in a loving nod to our sisters and brothers in Ukraine and the chickens will welcome another six layers to the flock so we can help feed our family, neighbors and coworkers. I don’t know how things work in your soul, but planting and tending to life is my best insurance against the despair and division that currently threatens to poison us once and for all. A tiny seed that will give us ground cherries in August says otherwise. My hope is in her. Unreservedly.

As if all that over-the-top unstoppable new life jubilation isn’t enough, I also got to hold my great-niece for the first time last Sunday. Eleanor arrived on Valentine’s Day just before her mother’s birthday and has no idea how much joy she brought with her on her passage from the womb into her parents’ tired and excited arms. She is wiggly and sweet, a sponge soaking up the sights and sounds around her and I think I may not see my sister Peggy for the next seven years at least. Her first grandchild has a claim on her heart and her spare time; I hold no grudges for such bliss. It’s just more life in a cute little package to keep us focused on what matters and how we can be helpful. Isn’t that what we’re here to do, after all? Tend to life, give our undivided attention to the Important Things and lend a hand (or a dozen eggs or a basket of freshly-picked salad ingredients).

When spring shows up with all of her most welcome baggage, it’s a good idea to make room wherever you can find it. She doesn’t take “no” for an answer, just keeps pushing life forward and upward and smart folks hang on for the ride.

The Medicine We Need

It was impossible to walk quietly this morning on the paths through the fields and back to the woods. A second round of freezing rain Saturday night glazed every fallen, decaying leaf and tired blade of grass for the seventeen-acre loop that begins and ends at our mud room door, making my bootsteps crunch loudly like those first fresh bites of cornflakes before the milk softens them soggy. I venture out most days with a fragile agenda that hopes for silence and wild companions to join me from a distance, and I graciously receive whatever the land gives me. I am never disappointed when I return to the house, chickens fed and watered, porch swept or salted (whatever it needs most) and walking boots drying at the register near the washing machine. Water boiling for the morning oats seals the deal on what I consider to be the best way to start the day.

Last Sunday, for the first time since we’ve been here, I veered off the main path past the sweat lodge and put my feet where the deer walk, a series of connected and well-worn tributaries through the old ironweed stalks and young sycamore saplings. I used my walking stick to push back brambles and plunged further eastward on the trails, pausing by a tree I didn’t recognize and feeling humbled by the realization that this place hadn’t known human footprints in over twenty-five years. Whatever pulled me forward—curiosity or Something Else—rewarded me with a most stunning find: a full eight-point buck skull, teeth intact and bleached perfectly white. The remaining bits of skeleton lay in a small pile a few feet away and I could only hope this magnificent relative had passed peacefully, surrendering to sleep and a smooth crossing over to the other side. I lifted the skull gently from the cold ground and carried it to the mouth of the meadow where I’d retrieve it on my way back to the house, leaving a string of unanswered questions in the dead grass.

I kept to the paths this morning and as I rounded a slight curve toward the place where a favorite young sycamore stands tall and brave, I saw the soft white glow of a four-point antler resting atop a thick plug of quack grass. It hadn’t been there on yesterday’s walk and the tiny reddish-pink spot of blood at its base was evidence enough that all kinds of things go on out there when we’re not looking. The difference a day makes, eh? I plucked it from the ground and lifted my gaze to the young woods north where three does and a twelve-point buck had been silently watching me. The largest of the does gave a warning snort and took off into the forest while the buck stood there, not moving, just…staring. I turned and showed him my shoulder blades as I moved down the path, head down and not returning his penetrating look, marveling at his utter stillness. Stand your ground took on new meaning in an instant.

The world is an especially noisy place right now and I crave silence in amounts equal to water and air. Most days the hum of traffic a mile away is light or nonexistent and I can bring my full attention to the shrill call of a bright red cardinal or laugh along with the raucous crows flying just over the woods’ canopy on their way to what sounds like a fun party. The woodpeckers are just starting to drill into the still-standing-but-dead black walnuts that line the creek banks, and last week I saw a small flock of sturdy robins bouncing about in the meadow, looking confused and sheepish, as if the memo they’d received had been some sort of prank designed to lure them back to their summer home prematurely. They soldiered on, though, pecking at the ground and slanting their heads slightly to listen for…what, worms crawling beneath the frozen top crust of soil? I left them to it and scooped out extra seed for them near the feeders dangling from hooks on the ridge.

I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that our souls are weary and in need of a powerful balm to calm things the heck down, if just for five blessed minutes. And I realize at the same time that to receive the gift of such a pause is one more hallmark of privilege; there are too many brothers and sisters who don’t have that luxury and must keep moving, no matter how tired they are. I know I can’t fix everything, or even some things, but I can and do walk on their behalf, taking not a single step for granted, sending the peace from the fields across the miles and countries’ borders to reach them, fingers crossed, with a small morsel of healing.

What else can I do? It’s a question I ask myself regularly and I must get comfortable with the silence that follows, waiting for the answer to arrive. There is medicine in the waiting, I know.