This Is Where I Live
Three adolescent raccoons have been tidying up the area below the bird feeders because the blue jays and the red-bellied woodpeckers are a tad enthusiastic when it comes to cherry-picking the sunflower seeds and bits of peanuts from the mix. They fling millet and quinoa everywhere and these little ring-tailed rascals set to cleaning up the mess every afternoon around 3:30pm. I’ve got the perfect view from the kitchen sink (for as long as the dirty dishes hold out) and yesterday, I scattered some stale Cheerios and cornflakes amid the fallen seed, a raccoon’s idea of Christmas in July.
The unbearable heat dome seems to have shifted a bit, but I still wait until after 5:00pm to cut the grass, in manageable three and four-acre sections at a time, because most of it is shaded by then, the towering and fully leafed-out sycamores and black walnuts filtering the late day sun into thin rods of sliding board light. Groves of Osage orange and those prolifically rabbit-like clusters of mulberry saplings become studies in the nuances between emerald, Kelly, shamrock, and mint. Get the folks at Crayola on the phone; they could do a whole box of greens from just the meadow and ridge alone, surpassing the usual 64-count and giving their Ultimate Collection of 152 (which includes the metallic and glitter variety) some serious monochromatic competition. I want naming rights (“late afternoon mulberry leaf”, “lemon-lime sawgrass”, “drooping Genovese basil”).
As I wrap up the end of a two-week post-op recovery period, I’m wistful about leaving this place for the heat-holding concrete of downtown, where even the carefully curated trees that surround the statehouse look like they’re waiting for a better offer and would relocate in a heartbeat. I’ve had a rare and continuous front-row seat to the land and all of her daily evolutions, from quiet sunrises to the chickens’ proud and noisy midmorning egg-laying announcements (that sound, I swear, exactly the same as their “Help!! There’s a hawk circling!!” squawks, that pull me off the overstuffed chair in the living room and racing down the slope to the coop…only to congratulate the girl who just gave it her all and left the evidence in a belly-shaped hollow of straw), all the way to the hypnotic and mystical rising of the fireflies from the grass, just before the sun disappears below the tree line that holds the winding path of the creek in its finger-roots. In my middle of the night trips downstairs, I stop long enough to ease the front door open and step onto the porch, into slightly cooler night air (even a heat dome needs to power down a little) and listen to the richness of a silence only darkness can hold. If there’s anyone reading this who would like to subsidize this generously sacred life rhythm of mine, please private message me.
The relentless humidity has filled the sky with towering and pillowy columns of clouds that make me want to become a lifetime member of the International Cloud Appreciation Society (yes, that’s a real thing) and I’ve spent the past week braving the heat to stand below what can only be described as the largest skyscape oil painting I’ve ever seen. To be fair, the view from the 21st floor at the downtown office doesn’t disappoint, offering unmatched panoramic views of storms making their way across the tops of the tallest buildings, and I get to see what raindrops look like long before they flatten at gravity’s bidding on the sidewalks below. But it’s at least eight degrees cooler on my front porch, where the nearest stone is the walkway of 16”-square pavers I arranged in a curved path on the grass last month, guiding visitors to the welcome mat below the screen door. And no streaming subscription’s menu of new and bygone movies or vintage sitcoms could ever compete with the entertainment value of a laying flock and four young cats. Grab a cold LaCroix from the fridge, pull a deck chair into a shady spot and enjoy the show. If you’re lucky, the adolescent raccoons will arrive early and take wildlife-meets-domestic hilarity to new levels.
For all that I’ve written about this slice of paradise that is truly home to me, it’s still hard to describe its wonder, its magic, and its mystery adequately. It must be experienced, over time, to be understood, to be believed, to be loved. During thunderstorms that put me on respectful alert, when a days-old deer looks me square in the eye from its safer place by mama’s side across the creek, and how the trees’ uppermost branches groan and clack softly into each other while a strong wind pushes through…I live and move and have my being here, with all the gratitude and humility I can summon. “Luck” doesn’t begin to cover it. This is about a relationship, the likes of which I have never known.
Home.
