Tag: nature

Paying Attention for What’s Next

What next? I’ve been batting this question around quite a bit, especially inspired by seasonal changes. Back-to-school activity, Monarchs frenetically flying around in migration prep, evening and morning temperature drops, these shifts into autumn prompt my own search for another gear.

‘What next?’ has recently been a question I particularly ponder about my writing. I’m ready to let go and get my memoir out into the world. While there are certainly still rewrites ahead on that, the question is, what to write about? I needed to write about my husband, our time in Bosnia, my daughter’s premature birth in Italy, struggling with his addiction, navigating Molly and myself out of the shadow of his suicide. The compulsion to tell that story got me up on the coldest of mornings, 7 days a week.

And the discipline stuck. For the past few years I religiously rose before dawn, before setting off to my day-job, rewrote, rewrote, rewrote. Now, it’s time to move on. I need to find a new story-itch and I think if I pay attention to the clamoring voices inside of me, I will. Perhaps that’s one of my best insights from years of living with insanity. Paying attention leads me to a feeling of serenity. Focused, present in a thoughtful way – that’s the state I aspire to be in as much as possible.

Writing helps me get there, especially if I do so with the expectation/hope of being read. So in a kind of letting-go exercise, I’m setting myself the challenge to come to this space each day rather than revisit old pages. If even briefly, to write — as a kind of meditation, or perchance to find my next story. It’s a start.

The Moon’s Tribute to Neil Armstong

It was veritable party of flashing cameras last night at the beach, all of us hoping to capture some spectacular image of the well-publicized ‘Blue Moon’.  This is the best I could do…

Blue Moon

“It’s when there are 2 full moons in one month…” said one wizened fellow to another as they sat sentinel-like on the stone wall overlooking marsh grass and feeding gulls. I overheard them as I passed below, picking my away across the low-tide stretch, leaping over piles of dubious looking Long Island Sound flotsam and jetsam.

And I came across this weird tide pattern – like a quiet echo of the planet now rising on the horizon.  The evening, with this rare second-showing of luna and this strange, perfect circle in the marsh flats, felt like a sweet nod to the recent death of the first man to step and prance across that very distant rock-scape.

Mystical Tide Mark

Magic of a Morning

Here’s what I love about my day-off early mornings: The light. The light.

The light. The gentle slants of sun stretching across the grass, easing in through the wavy-glass of our old-house windows, magically illuminating floating dust.

And I love my cup of tea.

And another and maybe, another again.

Through the open window, there is an almost-silence. (crickets and cicadas gently buzz)  Birds swoop by to assess the feeders and quickly spin off annoyed, I imagine, by the empty grates.

I try not to think about the rest of the day – not yet. I avoid making the mental lists of to-do: filling the empty feeder or following that fairy-dust as it creates yet another layer to be cleaned on the many neglected surfaces in my house. I push away thoughts of laundry piles or what groceries to buy, menus for the week. Not yet.

This morning, almost-autumn cool, I sit a little longer to marvel at the Monarchs hovering around the butterfly bush. I notice how the green of the hedge seems brightened by yesterday’s rain. There has been a seasonal shift and now, it’s cool enough for a sweatshirt. A sense of a fleeting inspires me to savor these moments — just as the solitude of these early mornings is sweeter for the thought of my still-sleeping loved ones.

Summer Torpor Respite

Steamy-hot days seem to wilt everything but the weeds. What’s left of my vegetable garden is being swallowed by renegade grasses and the border of browning hostas and now-skeletal daylillies is barely visible behind pigweed and chokecherry.  The unruly mess of my garden taunts me as I search out a shady spot and a breeze to read the paper. I should weed-wack, mow, clip… but just can’t. Yesterday, it was almost 3 by the time we rallied enough out of our torpor to take the kayak out. We agreed we’d only loll about near a sandbar — no paddling out to the islands. So that’s what we did.

A patch of bliss.

We have a favorite spot not even 10 minutes from our launch — a teeny island that disappears with high tide. Yesterday, the timing was right and our sweet patch was there to welcome us. As planned, we lolled about: floating in the salty shallows, stepping across sandy boulders.

Breezes sent an occasional wave of chatter through the sea grass, a pair of terns swooped through with flirty calls, punctuated by plaintive screeches of the odd gulls. As we stood on the still-wet rocks and watched the Sound move out and the sun go down, the rocky stretch exploded with mini-geysers. Clams! Alas, faster than we could dig with our hands through the rocky muck, they disappeared. Next time, we’ll bring a spade.

The grittier view that reminds us where we live.

Why I Hate Groundhogs

In a brief walk around my garden this morning, this is what I found:

Nibbled Tomato Plant
Devoured Spinach
Decimated Gladiolus
Ravaged Black Eyed Susans

But most upsetting of all is this –

Wounded Tetley

That flash of green is his foot wrapped in gauze. To be fair, the groundhog responsible for Tetley having to wear this mortifying cone is dead. He killed 3 in one week. Not the beast of a rodent lurking around here for years, but smaller ones. A 4th adolescent (at least) has been brazenly loping about, teasing my brave hunter who throws himself against the screen door to get at him.

Not a banner garden year, as you can see. Between the weeds and the critters and some scorching days, I’ve lost heart. Not quite given up but certainly disheartened. I drove by a community garden yesterday – all neatly penned-in and bursting with health. How does your garden grow?

Sunday Morning in the Neighborhood

What is it about Sundays? On my street, there is a divine tranquility, almost silence. Garage doors remain closed – no work today for my neighbors. Through the thick hedge, I can see the passing feet of the odd jogger or dogs and owner. No mowers, blowers or hedge clippers yet. Even the not-distant-enough highway sounds soothing — a steady whoosh rarely broken by the squeal or roar of a truck. It will be another hot one later but at 7:00 AM, the cool of night still lingers.

Across the street is a triangle of land owned by the city, overgrown with weeds. My neighbor has called to complain that it needs cutting because it’s hard to see if there is traffic when pulling out from Sterling Place. But from my window, it’s a field of Queen Anne’s Lace. Maybe I’ll don some boots (tick-terror) to cut a bouquet. Then I’ll water the tomatoes, pots of Petunias and herbs. We’ll kayak. But now, this hour of mine before the house and neighborhood really wakes, I savor the morning light, the kaleidoscope of greens, the quiet.

Welcome Summer

Like clock-work, the heat cranked up, the clouds inflated into magical shapes, and the fireflies began their silent summer fireworks. Oh — and much to our dog Tetley’s dismay,  distant neighbors also started prepping for the dread explosions of July 4th. And we’ve had our first wild, summer storm complete with house-shaking thunder. Poor Tetley. He dutifully dons his Thundershirt – but it only makes him look more stylish while barking and running furiously through the house on 3 legs. (although he is much better – pshaw on the surgery!)

High tide was 3 PM yesterday and we launched the kayak out of Calf Pasture beach – my first trip of the season. There was a steady wind pushing us out towards the islands. We let ourselves get blown from shore, lolling lazily on the heaving tide. After an hour or so, we paddled back. We barely spoke.  A meditation beneath the passing clouds on lapping waves. Bliss. 

Tag Sale

We need a new lawnmower and could also use some outdoor furniture. So yesterday, we went to tag sales. Fascinating, and at times, a little ghoulish walking through stranger’s homes, rifling through piles of a lifetime of belongings. Particularly weird are estate sales run by the off-spring. Standing by as strangers paw their parent’s belongings, I think they must hate us. Bargain-hunters inventorying beloved nick-nacks of their childhood cluttering every surface, sticky with years of grime. Assessing asses trying out dad’s favorite chair, haggling over the pyrex. The flotsam of the finished lives of someone they loved.

A red-flag to keep driving is the lemonade stand at the end of the drive. Surely a garage full of plastic toys and baby equipment follows. One driveway was full of divorce fall-out, the man practically giving away his remainders, apparently anxious to pack up his LandRover and be gone. I prefer the happier moving sale, often with the bonus of hearing about the planned adventure. The cheery couple with the stripped down house, laughing neighbors warming the still un-sold couch and chairs, are moving to Florida. We were too late for their lawn mower.

It’s the sales of dead parents stuff that sticks with me. Were people recently living in these claustrophobic homes? The musty rooms packed with old linens that should just be chucked. One house had a room of bizarre and unloved-looking dolls covering every inch of the floor – easily hundreds.  Once upon a time, each of these creatures was brought home as precious, but I wager by Monday, a dumpster will be full of hundreds of staring glass eyes and rigid limbs in a macabre mass burial.

I came home and looked around my house. Imagining someone filling their arms with books, heaving iron skillets off the wall, fingering my scarves, my clutter, I made a decision.  I don’t want to buried under a lot of shit no one really wants. I am cleaning and purging to make room for air and light. That’s really all I need. And a lawn mower.

Beloved Tetley

Tetley tore his ACL. Who knew dogs could do that? I am not even sure what this is except that it seems to happen to people who play sports. And these humans get surgery. The vet was keen to put Tetley under the knife. But surgery is not cheap. And Tetley is no longer a youngster. Nor does he seem like he is pain. In fact, within 2 weeks of injury he now walks slowly on 4 legs again, albeit with a bit of a limp. When he chases squirrels (he just can’t resist) he lifts it up and uses 3 legs. Tripod is his new nickname.

While I was concerned about having him cut open for any procedure at his age (about 10), I confess that it is mostly the money. Paying for such an operation would take too big of a chunk out of my very thin cushion of savings. Maybe if he were to die without it, I would shell it out… I think. Thankfully, this is not a question I have to ask myself now. But it did get me thinking about humans and their pets and the need, at some point, to let go.

Garden Drama

The peonies took a beating from last week’s rain. An explosion of densely packed petals, the exquisite blossoms already seem more weight than the stems can bear – but a clinging rain is definitely too much. Collapsed against each other like drunken buddies, pinks turn to rust and shatter. I managed to pick a few bunches for the house and to give to neighbors – a day or so of peony perfume, captured.

Yesterday the sun returned, bringing summer. Or so it seemed. The air heavy with humidity, the garden a jungle. It was a day to garden. Yanking at the bittersweet that threatens to strangle every growing thing in my yard, I felt like our house might get swallowed up by this invasive if I just let it go. I am only eliminating twisting sprouts – the network of grasping roots runs deep and stretches far like some alien creature lurking just beneath. So I stay vigilant, not willing to sacrifice my lilac, the blueberries, not even the mint also trying to swallow up my vegetable patches.

Or rather, the varmints’ vegetable patches.  So far, they’ve devoured the parsley and red basil plants, the cucumber seedlings I’d admired one day were gone the next. Ground hogs, rabbits, squirrel? I think they all join in the feast. They don’t bother the tomato plants – not yet. It’s early days – still time to get a better fence. But more likely, as in years past, I’ll surrender to sharing.

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